Heroism for the Ages
by wild wolf free17
Summary: -anthology- Ficlets of various lengths. Separate warnings and ratings. Gen, slash, het, AU and canon... all can be found here.
1. Alleys of Sorrow

**Each of these comes with its own ratings and warnings.**

**

* * *

**

**Title**: Alleys of Sorrow

**Fandom**: "Supernatural"

**Disclaimer**: not my characters. just for fun.

**Warnings**: AU before pilot

**Pairings**: Sam/Jessica

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 1580

**Notes**: There is no disrespect meant for anyone who survived Hurricane Katrina or lost someone because of the storm. But I got hit with the idea once I realized Dean had been in New Orleans prior to getting Sam. So if anyone is offended or hurt, I beg a thousand pardons.

* * *

The morning after Katrina, Sam turned on the news and wondered if the world had gone mad. Jessica came out of the bathroom toweling her hair and asked, "Sam, what's wrong?" But then she noticed the screen and sank down beside him. "Sam?" 

"It's unbelievable," Sam murmured. "Why weren't they prepared? Why didn't they get out?"

Jessica started crying and Sam pulled her close. "It'll be alright," he said, unsure if he believed it himself."

Suddenly, Jessica jerked away. "I have to call Mom," she gasped. "I don't know where Brandon is." She grabbed the phone and Sam watched her frantically dial. She collapsed back next to him and he wrapped his arms around her. "Momma," she sobbed into the phone. "Is Brandon okay?" A moment of tense silence and then she said, "Oh, thank god." Sam rubbed her back, kneaded her shoulder. "Thank god," Jessica repeated. "I love you, Momma."

-

They spent the day watching the news, counting their blessings. While Jessica was in the bathroom, Sam called Dean but Dean didn't answer. Sam called every ten minutes for seven hours, left increasingly frantic messages. Finally, he tried Dad.

"Yeah?" Dad answered on the first ring and relief washed through Sam.

"Dad, you're alright," he said.

"Sammy?" Dad asked. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Sam laughed mirthlessly. "You haven't seen the news? The Gulf Coast is decimated."

"What?" Dad's voice was a horrified whisper. "I've been asleep for two days. Have you heard from Dean?"

"He's… he's not with you?" Sam closed his eyes, ran his fingers through his hair.

"I sent him to Biloxi, Sam. I'm in Phoenix and I sent him to Biloxi on a hunt."

"No," Sam denied, shaking his head. "He's with you in Phoenix; he _has_ to be, Dad."

"He's not," John whispered. Sam heard him exhale. "Keep calling him, Sam. I'm going to Biloxi. I'll be in touch when I get there."

-

Sam and Jessica curled up together that night. "I'm glad your cousin's safe," he said and Jessica nodded.

"He evacuated two days before landfall," she explained. "He's staying with my aunt in Tulsa until it's safe for him to see what's left of his home."

"Where'd he live?" Sam asked.

She answered, "New Orleans."

-

Dad called early Thursday morning. Without saying hello, Dad murmured, "He was in New Orleans."

Sam sank down onto the bed, hand clenched around the phone. "What?"

"When I didn't answer his calls, he left word with Bobby. He was headed towards Phoenix to see if I was alright, but I'd already told Bobby the hunt was over. So Dean heard about a hunt in New Orleans and was angling for there Saturday. The last message on my phone is late Saturday night and says he'd just hit the city limits."

"Dad," Sam said in a horrified whisper, "New Orleans is a war-zone."

Dad's voice was broken as he replied, "I know."

"Why the hell would he go to New Orleans?" Sam demanded, jerking upright in the bed. "He should'a seen the news, the people leaving—who in their right mind would go _in_?"

Dad's laughter was helpless, painful. "Because your brother is a goddamned idiot with heroic tendencies. You know that, Sammy."

Sam listened in horrified silence as Dad cracked up over the phone.

-

By noon, Dad called again. Jessica had gone to class, after staring at Sam for awhile. He hadn't mentioned his brother and she didn't ask.

Sam answered on the first ring.

"I can't get in, Sammy," Dad said, sounding broken and defeated. "My god…"

In all his years, Sam had never heard his father so shattered and worn. "Dad," he began, then paused.

"How's it look from the outside world, son?" Dad asked and Sam glanced back at the news, the same pictures and footage over and over.

"Like Hell," Sam murmured.

-

After the refugees were shipped all over the country and New Orleans combed through, Dad continued his search. Sam took a break from school; his grades and attendance guaranteed him an open spot when he came back.

Jessica kissed him goodbye, a gentle caress of his lips. "Find him, Sam," she said, meeting his eyes. "Find him and tell him he'll be the Best Man at our wedding."

Sam nodded, blinking back tears.

-

Dad waited in Houston for Sam to catch up. "I've called everyone Dean might possibly contact. No one's heard anything." Dad's voice was all business; emotions were shoved to the back.

For the first time, Sam thought he might understand. Dean, wherever he was, didn't need John the Father. He needed John the Hunter.

"We'll find him, Sammy," Dad declared, looking at the Astrodome, at all the people waiting for their families, waiting for word.

"Yeah," Sam replied, determination choking the sorrow. "We have to."

Side by side, they crossed the street.

-

Jessica called every day, sometimes for a minute, but more often for an hour. She chattered on inanely and Sam lost himself in the words, in her voice, in the world he was beginning to suspect he'd never return to.

Dad tracked down every destination for the evacuees. He himself stayed in New Orleans for a week, checking every nook and cranny. Sam started in Houston and worked his way east. They met in Baton Rouge for a day, Dad doling out Sam's next assignment before he headed back to New Orleans.

Months passed. Dad aged years and Sam quit smiling. All over the country they looked, every single place people were sent.

Determination waned and Sorrow returned, Sorrow with hazel eyes and a devil-may-care smile.

"No one's seen him," Dad said, slumped in a booth at Denny's. "No one's heard from him. He'da contacted somebody, Sam, if he could."

Sam gulped some of his water and countered, "If he remembered."

Dad met his eyes for a moment before looking away. "You're right," he said. "Of course you're right. There's a reason—he's got amnesia." Dad nodded, hand clenched around his glass of water.

And Sam realized Dad was cracking. He'd barely held himself together after Mom, and if they never found Dean…

"He's fine, Dad," Sam told him, reaching out to grip Dad's shoulder. "Dean's fine. We'll find him because we can't do anything else."

Dad nodded again. "I know."

-

By February of '07, there wasn't a single stone left unturned in the continental US. Hunters had come out of the woodwork to help search, people Sam had never even heard of.

Sam had told Jessica he wouldn't be going back to Stanford. She said she'd always love him, but—and he said he understood. He wished her well.

After twenty-two years Mom's killer appeared, but Dad didn't waver from the search.

By February of '07, Sam was running on will and stubbornness, and Dad was on his last leg. Neither of them had ever expected to live in a world without Dean. Every day Sam didn't hear his voice, his soul withered just a little more. Those years he had at Stanford, that freedom—it all tasted bitter on his tongue and he hated himself for cutting Dean off so completely.

Since August and Katrina, Sam and Dad hadn't had a single fight. Not a one. The irony almost strangled him, the first time he noticed. Dean spent most of his life trying to make them get along, and finally they did—but Dean wasn't there to see it.

Dean wasn't there. He wasn't anywhere. No one could find him.

No one could find him.

-

By February of '07, Sam knew Dean was gone.

So he left Dad at the Roadhouse, drinking himself into a stupor, and went to New Orleans. He went to the levies that failed and looked out over the water, remembering the newscast, the terror and confusion, the dread when Dean never picked up and said his name.

Sam slowly sank to his knees, watching where the water met the sky. The tears pooled and spilled over, hitting the concrete, and he couldn't stop them, couldn't slow them.

More than anything else in the history of the world, Sam wanted Dean beside him. He sank back on his haunches, then stretched his legs out in front of him, staring at the horizon that slowly darkened. It had been slightly chilly before but after the sun set, he shivered, harshly wiped his hand across his eyes.

He just wanted to hear Dean's voice, feel Dean's hand rest on his shoulder. Just wanted to see Dean and tell him everything he never took the time to say while he had the chance.

Sam pulled up his knees, folded his arms across them, rested his chin on his crossed wrists, and stared out over the still water, the water that probably stole his brother, with no intent to ever return him.

The wind picked up, swirling about his head, and he'd almost swear he heard Dean laughing. Just the memory of his brother laughing called up an answering chuckle, but it came out as more of a sob.

"Rest, Dean," he whispered. "You earned it."

His phone rang and he pulled it out: Ellen. "Yeah?" he answered.

Dad was asking for him. So Sam assured her he'd be back soon and stood, with one more glance out over the Pontchartrain. "I miss you," he said softly and walked along the levy to where he'd parked.

He'd almost swear he felt someone watching him, but was too frightened to glance around and be wrong.

* * *

_I bought a cheap watch from the crazy man  
Floating down Canal  
It doesn't use numbers or moving hands  
It always just says "now"  
-  
Now you may be thinking that I was had  
But this watch is never wrong  
And if I had trouble the warranty said:  
Breathe in, breathe out, move on  
-  
And it rained  
It was nothing really new  
And it blew  
Seen all that before  
And it poured  
The earth began to strain  
Pontchartrain leaking through the door, tides at war  
-  
If a hurricane doesn't leave you dead  
It will make you strong  
Don't try to explain it just nod your head  
Breathe in, breathe out, move on  
-  
And it rained  
It was nothing really new  
And it blew  
Seen all that before  
And it poured  
The earth began to strain  
Pontchartrain buried the 9th ward to the 2nd floor  
-  
According to my watch, the time is now  
The past is dead and gone  
Don't try to shake it, just nod your head  
Breathe in, breathe out, move on  
-  
Don't try to explain it, just bow your head  
Breathe in, breathe out, move on..._

_"Breath In, Breathe Out, Move On" – Jimmy Buffet  
_


	2. Outlaws

**Title: **Outlaws

**Disclaimer**: not my characters. just for fun.  
**Warnings**: spoilers for "Night Shifter"  
**Pairings**: nada… after a fashion.  
**Rating**: PG13  
**Wordcount**: a smidge over a thousand

* * *

When Dean was about ten, not too long after Fort Douglas, he went through a phase where he was obsessed with outlaws.

Robin Hood. Jesse James. Billy the Kid. Bonnie and Clyde.

There was a pattern he noticed, which finished his search for information fairly quickly.

In the end, not a single one of them lived happily ever after.

To tell the truth, it was a mite depressing.

o0o

Bonnie and Clyde.

Damned, but that's the fucking truth. Dean can't lie to himself anymore—not that he ever really could.

Jesse James, shot in the back by one of his own gang.

Robin Hood, poisoned by someone he trusted.

Billy the Kid, killed by a man who was once his friend.

Bonnie and Clyde…

Dean jerks his mind back to the job at hand: getting the fuck out of Dodge.

o0o

"We have to ditch the Impala, Dean," Sam says, voice soft.

"I know," Dean answers.

o0o

They go to ground. Dad had hideouts all over the country. Dean's probably the only besides Dad who's been to them all.

They stay gone for months, no communication to anyone. They left the Impala on a lonely stretch of road in Montana.

Sam monitors every government database and Dean throws knives. Sam scours Dad's journal even though he has the damned thing memorized and Dean scans news sites.

Ellen tries calling both of them for weeks but neither answers.

They rarely talk, move around each other like well-oiled machines. Sam doesn't get visions and Dean's coiled tight enough to snap.

He's always hated waiting.

o0o

Half a year and Dean thinks it's maybe enough. Dad dropped off the face of the Earth, except he didn't—he kept hunting, leaving a trail, minute though it was.

Dean and Sam just vanished.

"You sure no one knows about this place?" Sam asked, the day before they entered the cabin.

"Only Pastor Jim," Dean replied.

o0o

The Impala was found, splattered with their combined blood.

They didn't answer, no matter who called. Finally, the phones were disconnected.

No sighting for half a year—the search was halted.

To everyone, they were dead.

o0o

When Dean was twenty-eight, he dreamed that he and Sam were outlaws. They stayed one step ahead of the cops for years and finally the FBI stepped in. They had one last showdown in Lawrence, Kansas—in their old house.

The demon was there, and Dad. The demon laughed with its host's face—Jessica. And Dad was shot by the cops.

Then Mom appeared, Mom as beautiful as the night she died. She looked Dean straight in the eyes and said, "I'm so disappointed, baby." And she smiled, so sad and gentle, tears pouring down her face.

Dean fell to his knees, pain coursing through his body, and looked up—she held his heart in her hand, fingers clenched around it, that smile still curving her lips.

He heard Sam scream, the gunshots, Sam hitting the floor.

_… the Bonnie to your Clyde…_

Dean lifted his head, looking for Sam—_watch out for Sammy_—but all he saw was Mom, staring at the demon in Jessica's form.

"You wanted his heart?" Mom asked, stepping over his body toward NotJessica.

"Yes," NotJessica answered, flicking its gaze to Dean.

"If I give this to you, you'll release John and Sammy?" Mom sounded eager, depraved, and the pain just kept building.

"I give you my word, Mary," NotJessica said.

_Demons lie._

"Don't, Mom," Dean rasped, trying to roll over and climb to his feet. "You're playing right into the plan."

Mom didn't even glance his way.

_I might have to kill you, Sammy._

Mom held out her fist, opened her fingers, his heart resting on her palm.

NotJessica reached, grabbed, murmured delightedly, "Still warm." Grinned.

Distantly, Dean heard Sam scream again.

NotJessica cavorted over, demented grin on its face. It knelt beside him, caressed his face, and laughed, clenching its fingers around his heart.

"You're mine, Dean," NotJessica whispered. "You're the key and you're mine." Trailing a finger down his face, it mused, "Not really Bonnie to your Clyde, dear boy. More like the Adam to your Eve." It laughed, squeezing his heart harder, and blackness beckoned from the corners of his eyes. "Eve was the key, you see," it continued, stroking his chin with one hand. "She was the weak one and she delivered Paradise to my Majesty's feet."

Leaning down, NotJessica pressed its cold lips to Dean's. "Wake up, boy," it hissed into his mouth. "The fun is just starting."

o0o

Twelve-year-old Sam came home one day with a book he'd checked out from the school library. He flipped through it for hours, pouring over the words, devouring the knowledge.

"What ya got there, Sammy?" Dean asked, deftly pulling apart a rifle at the kitchen table.

Sam looked up, over. "An enclypedia of outlaws," he answered excitedly. "It's so awesome, Dean!"

Dean nodded. "I'll bet it is."

"You ever want to be an outlaw, Dean?" Sammy asked.

"No," Dean lied with a gentle smile.

o0o

_… the Bonnie to your Clyde…_

o0o

Twenty-eight-year-old Dean wakes with a gasp and choked cry. Sam's awake instantly, looks over from the other bed.

"Dean?"

"m'fine," he answers hesitantly. "Just a bad dream."

_I might have to kill you, Sammy._

"Dean?" Sam's looking for reassurance, for big brother to swear it'll all be fine when the sun rises.

But it's moonlight spilling over the Earth now, and moonlight reveals things for what they are.

_I'm tired, Sam._

"Dean?"

Dean closes his eyes, raises his hand to his chest, feels his heart beat. Sees Mom, for just an instant, offering it to the demon.

_… you'll release John and Sammy?_

_You're the key and you're mine._

_Demons lie._

"m'fine, Sammy," Dean lies in a whisper. "Go back to sleep."

o0o

_… the Bonnie to your Clyde… _

o0o

They left the Impala on a lonely stretch of road in Montana.

They left Dad as ashes, blowing away in the soft night breeze.

They leave the journal on Ellen's doorstep and Dean's necklace hanging by Cassie's bed.

o0o

This isn't a war they can possibly win, but that damned FBI agent named them true.

Bonnie and Clyde died fighting, right to the end.

At least… that's how the legend goes.


	3. Between Dusk and Dawn

**Title**: Between Dusk and Dawn

**Disclaimer**: not my characters. Just for fun.

**Warnings**: AU for "Hunted"

**Pairings**: nada

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 1130

* * *

Gordon Walker killed Sam a little before dusk, on a day like any other—Gordon Walker killed Sam by cheating, changing the rules. Gordon Walker killed Sam, and Dean died with him.

Dean died with him.

o0o

Gordon Walker killed Sam but left Dean alive. Gordon Walker, rifle in hand, carefully walked through the decrepit house, listening for any evidence that Sam actually hadn't died.

But Dean knew. Dean knew with his heart and his body and his soul that Sam no longer breathed. Sam wasn't anymore.

Sam **died**. And Dean died with him, except that Dean's heart still pumped blood and Dean's lungs still breathed and Dean's chest shuddered with sobs and Dean's hands trembled and Dean's eyes blinked—

Gordon Walker came back into the room and paused by Dean, said, "I really am sorry."

Gordon Walker killed Sam. Killed Sammy. **Killed**—

And Gordon Walker made the mistake of leaving Dean alive.  
_  
_

o0o

Dean stayed in that house for almost a week, sitting in that chair. One good turn deserves another, so Gordon left Dean as he himself had been left.

Gordon had a headstart. Gordon knew Dean would be after him. Gordon had connections and places to go to ground.

And Dean sat in that house for six days, not eating and not drinking, not doing anything but breathing, remembering, begging forgiveness—and swearing revenge.

Gordon Walker left Dean **alive**.

o0o

And on the seventh day, Dean unravelled the knots and stood, softly walked through the decrepit house, and knelt in the remnants of the room that Sammy died in.

Dean's heart beat, Dean's chest shuddered, Dean's hands trembled, and Dean's eyes wept.

But Dean died with Sam.  
_  
_

po0o

Gordon drank with his old friend Carl, a hunter who understood his methods and reasoning, who assured Gordon that no one could find them.

Gordon laughed with Carl, shared hunting stories, discussed plans for the future, how to find the rest of the psychic filth that would betray humanity and fight for Hell.

He even told Carl about the Winchester boys, how they'd shamed their father. Carl nodded, made noises of agreement, and died silently when a bullet went into his right eye and out the back of his skull.

o0o

Gordon Walker cheated, but Dean didn't. After he kicked in the door, he stared at Gordon and tossed aside his gun. Reached into his boot and pulled out the knife, flicked it to the ground. And kept staring at Gordon, who rose to his feet, looked down at Carl.

"Why didn't you kill me?" Dean asked, the words quiet, his voice shattered.

"Because I'm not a killer," Gordon answered.

And Dean laughed.

He lunged for Gordon and he kept on laughing.

o0o

Gordon Walker killed Sam a little before dusk.

Dean killed Gordon Walker at sunset.

Gordon Walker killed Sam quickly.

Dean killed Gordon Walker slow and made it hurt.

There wasn't much left of Sam, after.

Dean left Gordon Walker in pieces all around Carl's bunker.

Gordon Walker killed Sam and it was the second-worst mistake of his life.

His greatest mistake was leaving Dean alive.

But Dean died with Sam.

o0o

Dean's hands tremble and Dean's heart beats and Dean's lungs breathe—Dean stares up into the sky, the sun bathing his face with warmth, but he still shivers on the inside.

He still shivers on the inside.

Sammy is dead. Dad is dead. The hunt looms ahead of him, something that will never be over. Just like he told Sam, all those months ago.

He stares up into the sky.

Sam is **gone**. Sam is **dead**. Gordon Walker killed him.

Gordon Walker killed him.

Dad died, and Sam, and Mom—he's alone. He didn't have the chance to save Sam, to keep that demon from claiming him, so the last order Dad ever gave, he failed. Couldn't do it. And he can't even explain, because Dad is dead, Dad left him behind **again**, but this time forever.

The sky stretches away, into infinity, and Dean has nowhere to go.

o0o

So Dean went back to the decrepit house. And he sank onto the floor that Sam decorated with his blood and tissue, and he just lay there. Closed his eyes and imagined Sam, imagined Dad, imagined the world as it was, before.  
**  
Before**.

His hands trembled and his eyes wept and his chest shuddered. Painted on his eyelids were Dad and Mom and Sam, the life that should have been.  
_  
_

o0o

He spent six days on the floor, six days begging forgiveness, six days shuddering and trembling, six days of just breathing and remembering.

For a few moments, as the sun rose on the seventh, he fancied that he felt Sam's hand on his shoulder, Sam's breath across his face, heard Sam's voice in his ear _C'mon, Dean,_ but then he opened his eyes and realized—

Realized Gordon Walker killed Sammy, and Dean's hands tremble because he keeps replaying those last few seconds he ever had with his brother, silence and hurt, and if he had just been better, if he'd tried harder, if he'd been quicker, smarter, more prepared, ready for everything the world had to throw at them, he would have succeeded and Sam wouldn't have died just before dusk, Sam would have lived years and years and still grown older, Sam could have escaped the hunt, became something more.  
_  
C'mon, Dean_

But Sam died and Dean lived, and he lay on the floor for six days after killing Gordon Walker, breathing and begging and remembering, and when Sam first touches his forehead, Dean doesn't recognize it for what it is.  
_  
C'mon, dude. Stop this._

Sam died and Dean lived, and Dean's lost in pain and rage and self-loathing, drowning in despair, and he doesn't know the feel of absolution on his skin.  
_  
It's time, Dean, it's over._

Gordon Walker killed Sam weeks ago and Dean still clings to shredded hopes that he's insane, made the whole thing up, that Sammy never died.

_Dean._

Dean's eyes are closed and he's replaying those last few seconds over and over, looking for anything he could have done differently, anything he could have changed and fixed everything, saved Sam.

Gordon Walker killed Sam, but he left Dean alive, and Dean still doesn't know why.

_Dean, damnit, listen to me!_

So he stares up at the ceiling, gun in hand, and wonders why the hell he's still alive, why he hasn't blown his brains all over the wall yet.

There is no reason.

_Dean, you stubborn bastard._

Reason died with Mom, with Dad, died with Sam.

o0o

Gordon Walker killed Sam just before dusk.

It's just after dawn when Dean pulls the trigger, but honestly, he'd been dead months before.

o0o

_Dean, you stubborn, proud, arrogant ass—_

Sammy?

'bout time, Dean.

Sammy…

_C'mon, man. It's time to go home. _


	4. Chocolate Chip

**Title**: Chocolate Chip

**Disclaimer**: Not my characters. Just for fun.  
**Warnings**: spoilers for pilot; AU for "Devil's Trap"  
**Pairings**: John/Mary, Sam/Jessica  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Notes**: The italics are the present. Everything else is pre-pilot. Don't let the first sentence fool you. Parts of this are—dare I say?—_cute_.  
**Wordcount**: 1080

* * *

_John holds out his hands in supplication, but the demon still kills his boy._

o0o

Jessica didn't know how to make chocolate chip cookies till Sam taught her.

"My mom didn't do the whole June Cleaver thing," she laughed, cheeks tinged slightly red.

He smiled gently and asked, "Want me to teach you? It isn't that hard."

"Don't you just follow the directions on the back of the bag?" she replied, following him nonetheless to the kitchen.

At that, he did laugh. "The first few times, sure. But after that, you get to have fun."

Sam didn't even glance at the bag. "Two sticks of butter," he told her, "and 3/4's a cup of brown and white sugar." She measured out the sugar and put it in the bowl while he cut the butter into small cubes. She raised an eyebrow and he shrugged. "Always done it this way," he explained. She cracked the two eggs and he added the teaspoon of vanilla, then the flour while she finished with the salt and baking soda.

He let her sample the chip-less dough and off her beatific smile he added them.

Jessica's cookies never did equal Sam's, but they still had a grand old time.

o0o

_John's entire world narrows to the smiling face of the demon's host and his son's body hitting the ground._

o0o

"Dean, can we get a dog?" Sam watched his big brother with wide, hopeful eyes.

Dean shook his head and went back to his book.

"Please, Dean? I don't care what kind." He pulled out the puppy-eyes and wobbly chin.

Dean didn't look up.

"Dean?" Now he added a tremor to his voice.

"Sam. Ask Dad." Dean's voice was steel. Absolute.

He would not break.

"But he'll say no."

Dean turned a page. "We don't need a dog, Sammy," he said. "We've got you."

Seven-year-old Sam stormed away, back to their room, and slammed the door. Dean watched him go with regret. "I want a dog, too, little brother," he whispered, and returned to D'Artagnan's adventures.

o0o

_A hole opens up in his heart and a scream fills his ears, and he recognizes the voice as his and he just **can't** **stop**._

o0o

"Daddy, can Mommy see us?" Dean asked quietly, burrowing underneath the blanket next to his father. Sammy slept peacefully and Dean kept a hand near his little brother while Daddy ran his fingers through Dean's hair.

"Sure can, Dean," Daddy answered, his voice soft. "She's real proud of you."

"Really?" Dean looked up at Daddy, almost afraid to smile because Daddy had been so sad recently.

"Really," Daddy assured him and kissed his forehead. "Now, go to sleep, Dean. We've got to head out in the morning."

It'd been almost a month since Dean hugged Mommy and he couldn't really remember her voice, but he remembered that she'd said to be careful with Sammy, so he was.

Daddy needed help, needed Dean to be a big boy and look out for Sammy. So he'd make Mommy even prouder of him and be the best big brother ever in the whole wide world.

o0o

_John falls to his knees, staring into his son's dead eyes, and feels himself shattering into a thousand pieces._

o0o

Sam learned how to make chocolate chip cookies in the two weeks they spent at Pastor Jim's. Dad had left them for a serious hunt down in the bayous of Louisiana, too dangerous for a slight eight-year-old and a twelve-year-old with something to prove.

Jim let them have the run of the place; the only two rules were: clean up any messes made and attend church on Sunday. Dean had no problem with either, and Sam followed his lead like always.

"Pastor Jim?" Dean asked the fifth day there, after hot dogs and crinkly cuts(his favorite type of fry), "Can I make cookies?"

Jim looked up from the book of Esther with an amused smile. "You know how to make cookies, Dean?"

"Yes'r," Dean answered, nodding. "Mom taught me."

"So long as you clean up any mess after, my kitchen is yours."

Dean's grin could have outshone the sun and he practically sprinted to the kitchen. This child, Jim thought, reminded him that even in the darkest of times, God let angels shed light on humanity.

Or, it could just be that Dean rarely had the chance to bake. Even the hardest men Jim had ever known loved something one would think incongruous.

Sam tailed Dean into the kitchen and stood in the background for a moment. Dean called questions to Jim about where everything was. "Do you remember the recipe?" Jim asked and Dean replied, "Yes'r."

Slowly, Sam stepped up next to Dean as he spread the ingredients on the counter. "Can I help?"

Dean looked down at Sam. "Mom used to bake cookies," he said. "She'd let me help. Let me stir the dough and measure the flour…" his voice trailed off and he glanced away. "Ask Pastor Jim where the measuring cups are."

Sam ran off and Pastor Jim had to come find them, but when the kitchen was covered in flour and the boys had eaten themselves sick on the dough, leaving enough for only one batch, Jim could see that innocence still clung to them. They weren't fully hardened yet.

He could pray that they never would be, but he knew that they wouldn't survive if that were so.

o0o

_"Oh, Johnny, what is in your blood that makes your pain so delicious?" the demon asks, dropping to its' host's knees beside him. _

_He looks into Mary's hazel eyes, staring at him out of Dean's grinning face, and wonders which of them hurts more._

o0o

John taught his boys to fight, to escape, to kill, and to survive. He taught them to follow his instructions to the letter and to look out for each other.

Dean learned everything. Sam didn't.

Sam stalked away and didn't look back; Dean stood in the doorway and watched him go.

"It's better this way," John told him, resting a hand on his shoulder.

"I know," Dean said. "I know."

o0o

_John hasn't cried since the year Mary burned. _

_Sam's body lays on the ground before him, Dean's body is laughing beside him, and the tears won't stop._

o0o

Sam smiled at Jessica as she dropped the dough onto the pan and remembered Dean teaching him years before, whispered words of their mother on the air.


	5. Unworthy

**Title**: Unworthy  
**Fandom**: "Supernatural"  
**Disclaimer**: Not my characters. Just for fun.  
**Warnings**: blasphemy; character death; AU  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Pairings**: none  
**Wordcount**: 1206

* * *

_If it only took love to save the world, why then, it wouldn't be damned, would it?_

_It takes more, children. Much more. It takes blood and sweat and pain—oh, so much pain—and sacrifice. It takes death, yes… it takes death to the save the world. _

_But you know what else it takes, kiddies? You know what else saves the world from damnation? _

_Life. Life. So get the fuck out there and live._

-

Sam rolls his shoulders, pops his neck, and keeps on digging. The hole is already nearly five feet deep; he should reach the coffin soon. If a coffin's down there, which he's starting to doubt.

"Hey, Sam, you gonna be done soon?" Dean asks, laughter in his voice.

Sam can't help grinning. "Yeah" he mutters, and digs faster.

_-_

_That's how you defeat evil, kiddies. You just live. You go about your life, laughing and smiling and damned well fucking when you want to, and you don't let all the bad stuff get in the way._

_Don't believe me? Take a look around. _

_-_

Reaching up to the branch, he snaps it off and swings, hitting the zombie in its' decaying face. It snarls and keeps on coming, but he finally has a weapon.

Less then a minute later, its' head flies off and its' body falls. He breathes a sigh of relief and continues on towards the house.

"C'mon, Sammy," Dean calls from the porch. "What's taking so long?"

Sam rolls his eyes and picks up the pace.

_-_

_See that man? He's got a family, two kids, a wife, a dog. I'd say a cat, but cats belong only to themselves. He's not happy; he's content, and there's a difference. Happy people go around singing and dancing and sharing the joy. Content people sit on their asses and enjoy what they have._

_Happy people get in others' faces, eager to share. Content people live._

_Which do you think is doing better? _

_-_

Sam sits at the bar watching the pool game while drinking water. The three guys are good, but certainly not the best he's ever seen. He considers joining in—he can use the money—but he's just so damned tired.

"Oh, come on, Sam," Dean says from the stool next to him. "You could take 'em easy."

"I know," Sam answers.

_-_

_No, love alone isn't enough. It's barely enough, in fact. The world overflows with love and we're all still on the fast-track to Hell. _

_Sacrifice… oh, they've sacrificed so much, haven't they?_

_That guy, the one with kids and a wife and a dog, and maybe the cat? Those kids aren't his. His wife loves another, a man who died long ago. Who died for you and the world—but mainly his brother. _

_Sacrifice, a word all humans know but cannot truly comprehend. He knew though, the father of those children. He knew._

_It wasn't just love, or even hope that his brother would live the life he'd craved for so long. It wasn't just the blood they shared, or the pain they'd felt together in all their years. _

_He'd always understand about sacrifice. And he'd always known his purpose._

_Can you guess? C'mon—prove to me you've been listening._

_-_

Sam falls onto the bed and stretches his arms so that they lean over the edges. He stares at the stained and cracked ceiling, imagining his mom and Jessica and… Dean.

"You fucking bastard," he mutters. "You selfish, stupid, foolhardy…" He harshly wipes at his eyes, rolling over and burying his face into the pillow.

"What'd you think I would do?" Dean asks softly from across the room. "Let you die?"

_-_

_Oh, yes, he knew. He knew about blood and pain and death. He also knew about life, and that's where he fucked up._

_He thought his brother understood, too. _

_-_

Sam exorcises a poltergeist in Miami and deals with a haunting in Pierre. He crisscrosses the country five times, almost crashes the Impala due to exhaustion three times, and nearly dies too often to count.

His scars multiply far too quickly to be healthy and he's bruised all the time.

He knows he should stop, rest, regroup. He knows Dean died so he could live, and he knows he's failing.

He also knows he doesn't care because Dean left him alone, and Dean swore to never leave, and the only time Dean ever broke a promise was when he died.

And Sam finds that brutally unfair, shockingly funny, and damned ironic.

_-_

_Oh, yes, the father of that gorgeous little girl and that adorable little boy—he knew. But his brother didn't. His brother couldn't comprehend, because he'd always been there to shoulder the load._

_Do you see? _

_He gave his blood and his pain and his sweat and his tears and his love—he gave it all so his brother could live. It was only incidental the world survived, too. _

_And his brother lived, for a time. Almost a year, in fact. _

_Quite a feat, considering. _

_-_

Sam caresses the gun. Studies it. Memorizes its' contours.

Sam stares into the mirror. Studies his reflection. Memorizes every bit of his face. Sees Dean looking over his shoulder and smiles.

Dean doesn't smile back, and Sam had known he wouldn't.

"I died so you could live, Sammy," Dean growls and Sam knows he wishes he could still touch the living because he'd be kicking Sam's ass. "You'll make it in vain."

Sam nods. "I know."

_-_

_He was all about sacrifice, the daddy was. Dean, he was called. All about sacrifice. His whole life was a sacrifice; only right his death was, too. _

_But the brother—selfish, right to the last. Wanted and wanted and wanted—and Dean always gave, didn't he? Always. He was made to give. _

_-_

_"_Don't, Sam," Dean says, begging. "Don't do this."

Sam meets his eyes in the mirror. "I have nothing left, Dean."

"You're doing good." Dean reaches out, tries to touch Sam's arm, and his hand goes through his little brother. Sam shivers and Dean pulls back. "You're saving people. Isn't that enough?"

Sam smiles almost bitterly. "No. Never was for me."

-

_And Sam—the brother—was made to take. _

_-_

He raises the gun to his temple, closes his eyes, and pulls the trigger.

_-_

_So, what have we learned? _

_Love isn't enough, and sacrifice is pointless if the one you did it for cares more about himself than everything you've given up._

_Oh, but that's not right—sacrifice is sacrifice. Blood, pain, tears, sweat, life, death… if you give it all up, you should get to Heaven, sit by God and watch humanity. Not hang around your brother, the one you did it all for._

_And after he kills himself because he's always been a selfish bastard, the two of you should ascend, yeah? Finally rest._

_But suicide's a sin._

_Doesn't that just piss you off?_

_-_

His eyes fly open and he sits up in bed.

Dean's up across the room by the window, flipping through a book by moonlight and he glances over. "Bad dream?" he asks, "Or vision?"

"Not sure," Sam answers and swings his legs over the edge.


	6. Fragility

**Title**: Fragility  
**Fandom**: "Supernatural"  
**Disclaimer**: Not my characters. Just for fun.  
**Warnings**: AU; character death  
**Pairings**: none  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Wordcount**: 1144

* * *

_Blood on the air. In the water. On his soaking skin. Dripping down, falling to the ground, staining it crimson red. So much blood… more than should be in a body. More than should be anywhere._

_Sound muted in his ears; he couldn't hear the little girl screaming or her brother begging him to "Stay awake! Help's coming! Please, we need you—what if it comes back? Stay awake!"_

_He couldn't hear the beast's shriek or the roar of the gun or the river rushing by. He couldn't hear the little girl sobbing and her brother trying to comfort her while crying himself. He couldn't hear his own brother demanding he open his eyes and talk, demand he breathe, demand the blood get back inside him because he needed to live._

"_Please," he didn't hear, and didn't feel his brother pull his body into his arms, "please, don't do this. Don't leave me."_

_So much blood… he couldn't smell the cloying stench and he couldn't taste the copper in his mouth and he couldn't feel the sticky liquid pouring out of him, even though it should all already be gone._

"_Please," he didn't hear his brother beg, and he couldn't see the sun rise, shedding light on just how injured he truly was._

_The little girl's keening wail rose through the trees, and her brother tried to shush her, because his already had his hands full. _

_He didn't see his brother lean over, look into his eyes. He didn't feel the kiss his brother pressed to his forehead. He didn't smell the gasoline his brother poured over his body. He didn't taste the gas and blood mingled in his mouth. He didn't hear his brother's own sobbing. And he didn't feel his body burn to ash and blow away in the wind as his brother got the kids to safety._

_But he sure as hell felt it when he woke up a ghost and couldn't find Dean anywhere. _

-

Another night, another hunt, another missing of **something**.

He'd hunted before Sammy came back, hunted with Dad and alone, but he'd gotten used to Sam, to Sam's common sense and way of usually overlooking nothing.

They were a team, complete together—and now Dean's alone with memories and the hunt and the bitter taste of regret in his mouth. He's alone with weapons and Sam's laptop and Dad's journal—he'd tried calling Dad, tried for weeks, and never got through.

Finally, though, he realized—truly, in all the world, he's alone. Sam's dead and Dad's dead, and all that's left is the hunt. All that's left for him is the fight that stole his mother and Jess and Dad and Sammy.

So he does. He crisscrosses the country six times in a year, always looking for something, anything to kill, and it's not long before humans make the list. Humans, after all, he reasons to himself, kill and maim and torture and rape—why should monsters of the human kind live when all others are fair game?

Five years to the day Sammy died, Dean sees a man walking down the street, a man with Sam's hair and Sam's build, and he hurries the other way because it's nothing new. He sees Sammy anywhere and everywhere—a shrink would talk about guilt and projection and how Dean's needs to let his brother's death go, but Dean knows he's being haunted. And he can't exorcise Sammy, can't send Sammy home—can't send Sammy to Jess and Momma and Daddy, because he's alone, and the ghost of his dead brother is better than nothing at all.

-

And it's ten years after the wail that broke his eardrums—his own screams still echo in his ears, sometimes—that the ghost first actually talks to him.

"Hey, Dean," Sammy's voice says softly and Dean lunges from sleep with a mad roar that might've given even a lion pause.

Ghost shouldn't be solid, but the ones he seems to face almost always are, and he hits Sammy's chest with a thud, slamming him to the floor. And he'd heard Sammy's voice—thought he'd heard Sammy's voice—and the face just below his was Sammy's, the angles and planes he's had memorized since almost before he can remember, and the eyes—

"Sammy?" he whispers brokenly. "Sammy?"

"Yeah, Dean," Sammy whispers back, and ghosts shouldn't cry but he is.

Hunters shouldn't cry, either, and Dean'd thought he was all out of tears.

He rolls off Sammy and helps his little brother up, ushers him to a chair and doesn't look anywhere but Sammy for a good five minutes.

Sammy takes it with good humor, waiting for Dean to finish his inspection, and is surprised when Dean says, "You want me to let you go?"

Sam nods, meets Dean's eyes. "It's been ten years, Dean. I should go home."

Dean bites his lip, looks away. "But what if I can't?" he asks, and Sam sees the boy he used to be shining through, the little boy who couldn't understand why Momma was gone and Daddy was crying and Sam needed him so he grew too fast.

Sam stands and walks over, pulling Dean into his arms. "I need to go, Dean," he whispers into Dean's ear. "My time has long since passed." Dean's arms wrap around him and his body shudders with sobs.

"I can't let you go," Dean says, "Unless I can join you. Can I join you, Sammy?"  
_  
- _

The maids never could get the blood out of the carpet.

-

"Dean…" Sam tells him, pulling back. "No. You can't kill yourself—" He licks his lips and reaches down, gently brushes tears off of Dean's face. "Please, don't…"  
_  
- _

No one knew much about him, though he left some pretty freakish stuff in the room. Weapons, research, and a journal—he had to have been some kind of freak. A Satanist, maybe, looking for sacrifices.  
_  
One of the younger maids vehemently denied that. "He was a good guy," she told reporters. "He was nice." _

-

Dean sadly smiles up at him and says, "I've become a monster, Sammy. And there's almost nothing left. Please—let me come home."  
_  
- _

His clothes were donated to the Salvation Army and the weapons taken by police, along with the journal.  
_  
They couldn't ID him—they didn't know which of the licenses were real. But a search turned up dead serial killer Dean Winchester, and that caused quite a headache. _

-

Sam rests his forehead against Dean's and sighs. "Okay, Dean," he whispers and steps back. Dean walks over the dresser where he'd placed the bag and pulled out a gun.

He grins at Sam and says, "See you soon.

_- _

Pretty soon he was forgotten—bad things always happen, right?  
_  
But the maids never could get the blood out of the carpet. _


	7. Time Passes

**Title**: Time Passes

**Disclaimer**: Not my characters. Lyrics excerpted from "Every Mile a Memory" by Dierks Bentley. Just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for pilot

**Pairings**: Sam/Jessica

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 1155

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

_Funny how, no matter where I run,  
'round every bend I only see  
just how far I haven't come._

_-_

Sam looks over his shoulder every now and then, expecting to see her. In his mind, he holds an image, that first time he ever laid eyes on her. She was beautiful then and he knows she'd be beautiful now.

They'd met in a bookstore. She'd been chatting with some of her friends, standing in the way of the shelf he needed to get to, so he just reached over them. He knew it wasn't keeping a low profile, knew it wasn't sticking to the background like he'd planned on, but he was tired and wanted to get back to his dorm before he passed out on his feet.

She was the tallest in the group and as he pulled back, book in hand, she met his eyes. He nodded and turned, headed for the checkout. He listened as the rest of the girls giggled, as someone said something about being rude. He was too tired to care, too tired for anything but going ho—to the dorm and collapsing face-first onto his bed.

He never expected to see her again. So when he nearly ran into her on campus, late for class, he gave a double-take. She grinned and hurried off in the opposite direction. He shook his head and hauled ass to class.

The third time's the charm, he supposes, thinking back. Third time they ran into each other was when they finally talked. If it'd been left up to him, they wouldn't have; but she caught his eye in the cafeteria and he ducked his head as she marched over. She set her lunch down and held out a hand, said, "I'm Jessica Moore."

There was nothing for him to do but take her hand and respond with, "Sam Winchester."

She gracefully plopped herself into the chair across from him. She carried that first conversation, jumping from subject to subject, hardly giving him time to reply. He listened to her voice, watched her hand gestures, her eyes, how animated her entire body was.

When he finished his lunch, she'd barely taken a bite of hers. She looked from his tray to hers and said, "Oh."

He smiled, then laughed, and stood. "I gotta get to class, Ms. Moore," he told her, still smiling. "I'm guessing we'll see each other again."

She smiled up at him, eyes shining. "I'm guessing so, too, Mr. Winchester."

And they did. Their second conversation, Sam hogged the discussion, ranting about his history teacher and how the man wouldn't know a fact if it spit in his eye and set his ass on fire. Jessica spent the whole time hysterical, laughing at his hyperbole.

After he finally got it all out his system and paused to take a breath, she asked, "You wanna go to dinner with me Saturday night?"

He glanced over, met her eyes. "I thought the guy is supposed to invite the girl out?"

"Well, yeah," she laughed. "If you live in the seventeenth century."

"Actually," he said, "there wasn't much dating back then."

She looked at him and he ducked his head. "Yeah," he answered softly. "I'd love to have dinner with you on Saturday."

It was easy after that. They found a way to both talk at the same time, to listen and hear, to sit in silence. He would look up after sitting down to talk with her and realize hours had passed.

The months flew by. He aced all of his courses(even history) and watched the students pack for their homeward trips sadly. He was sitting in his empty dorm room when Jessica stopped by. She walked over and sank down beside him on the bed.

"So," she began softly, running her fingers through his hair. He tilted his head towards her. "I told my little sister about this guy I've been seeing. She told my mom, who then told my dad."

Sam had no idea where she could possibly be heading.

"My dad asked my mom for more details, and my mom called in my little sister." Jessica leaned forward and kissed his lips gently, trailing her fingers along his jaw. "And my sister told my parents that she doesn't think I've ever liked a guy so much. So now Dad wants to meet this guy, find out if he's worthy. Caroline also told them that she doesn't think he'd have the money to travel half-way across the country because of Daddy's whim."

"Jessica," he started, but she held her fingers to his lips.

"I want you to come home with me, Sam. To meet my family, Caroline and Jake and my parents. They'll love you." She let her hand fall and kissed his lips again. "Like I love you," she murmured into his mouth.

They spent a month with her family. When they went back to Stanford, they moved in together, into an apartment a little ways from campus.

She asked about his family; of course she did. He let silence speak for him, and the obvious deflectors from the subject. He mentioned Dean a few times, in the course of discussions about music and movies. He made allusions to his father and Dean, which had been more responsible for him as a child and adolescent; he spoke about his mother dying and his father not wanting him to leave for college.

But so much went unsaid. He knew what she thought and he let her keep thinking it. He felt guilty sometimes for all the half-truths, twisted truths, and lies of omission, but saying anything would have been worse—

Or so he thought. He knows better now. He sits shotgun in his brother's Impala, and he knows with everything in him that he should have told her.

It's been a year and her killer's trail grows colder by the day. It's been a year and he can still hear her voice, smell her scent on the breeze, feel her touch, gentle fingers trailing across his face, over his lips. He can see her everywhere he turns.

Dean's twenty-seven now and they didn't even celebrate his birthday. Sam turned twenty-three half a year ago and the day passed without acknowledgment. Sam feels like he's dead but he can't find the words to express himself and he knows Dean's trying his best.

Dean always tries his best. Always has, always will. Sam could set his clock by it, bet his life on it. He knows that Dean doesn't know how to do any different, how to be any other way. He takes advantage of that, always has.

Sometimes, Sam misses her so much it burns. It aches and throbs deep inside him. He just wants to see her, to hold her, to kiss her hair and touch her skin, to hear her say his name.

And he looks over his shoulder, every now and again, expecting to see her. And every time he doesn't, he's almost surprised that it hurts.


	8. Heaven Wept

_Tite: Heaven Wept_

_Disclaimer: Not my characters. Just for fun._

_Warnings: AU; spoilers for **The Old** and **New Testaments**_

_Pairings: mentions of John/Mary_

_Rating: PG13_

_Wordcount: 1060_

_Point of view: third_

* * *

Heaven has wept only five times in the history of Creation. The Lord made it perfect, along with all those who reside there; perfection has no need to weep. Perfection is beyond pain, beyond regret, beyond rage or hate—what need Heaven with tears? 

The first time came right after Adam led Eve from the Garden and the Lord watched them go, sadly. The world was so dark, so cold, beyond the Garden's edge.

And Heaven, all its denizens and beings, shed the first tears of mourning.

-

As the sky fell, dozens of lifetimes later, and as the ship rocked in waves of rage, Heaven watched, saddened by the sight. If only humanity followed the Lord's law, the angels knew, everything would be fine.

But humanity did not. And so the Lord punished them.

And Heaven continued weeping.

-

Thousands of years and millions of lives in a blink are gone. The Son, nailed to a cross, says, "It is finished" and bows His head.

The earth shakes and moans; the sky opens and all of Heaven cries. Cries for three days until He walks again, then ascends Home.

-

The fourth time Heaven wept, it involved a fallen daughter, her human lover, and their two young sons.

The daughter died in fire and blood, and her human vowed revenge. Heaven watched in shock and awe as he turned himself into a living weapon; and the awe turned to regret for he forged his sons, as well.

That cold winter night saw the end of not just she who had once been the most beautiful daughter, but also the innocence of her firstborn, a child who had shone with his own light.

The children grew strong and beautiful, magnificent in a way no human could be.

The elder, the one with his mother's eyes, had gifts no true-born Man could, abilities he didn't acknowledge but honed all the same. Games of chance and skill were as easy as breathing and he had a charm no human could resist. Fighting came swiftly, aided by his superior sight, and his reflexes were unmatched.

The younger had to work harder but he, too, received a gift. He had foresight, a talent for reading the future; too, he could sometimes feel what others felt. He did not acknowledge his skill and it faded for a time.

Together, they were invincible. Apart, they could be destroyed. They were their mother's sons but they were also their father's weapons—

Until the younger wearied of such a half-life and left.

Heaven knew what would come to pass—no true-born human could be with Higher-born and survive unscathed. Any man or woman he chose would come to grief. So it had always been and so it would always be.

The younger had the life he'd always wanted and a human who loved him. He believed he'd escaped, left behind his past, cast off all remnants of the hunt.

The elder embraced the hunt, loved it. He had not only the Higher-born's righteous fury but Man's bloodlust. He was a weapon, forged and honed, dangerous to all but one.

Then he visited his little brother. That night, Heaven knew there could be but one outcome. The daughter's killer still desired her blood. But for his plan, he needed the two together.

Only the death of the younger's human would accomplish that.

-

And so they hunted, the most beautiful of all beings. They grew stronger with each experience, and shone brighter than the sun.

They balanced on the edge, for their mother had fallen and humans can go either way. They trod a fine line drawn in shifting sand and could not see how close they were.

Finally, their mother's killer confronted them, but he had waited too long. They had grown faster than he thought and in one fell swoop, they defeated him.

-

Heaven has wept only five times since the dawn of creation. Five times in eons beyond measure.

-

After the crusade ended, the younger could return to normality. The elder could easily follow him, create another life.

But they continue hunting, killing, and destroying, and the younger takes the life of a man somewhere along the way. An accident. Simple as that.

But it's enough, and Lucifer is the Lord of Seduction.

And Heaven can only watch, because they are part human—and humans are cursed with free will.

-

They were forged in fire, honed on death, created by blood and pain. They are the perfect weapons.

And Sam fell, like his mother before him. He chose to punish humans as well as monsters, for are not some worse? All the reasons he'd explained to his brother before no longer mattered.

Lucifer whispered in his ear and he listened.

And as Adam followed Eve, so did Dean follow Sam.

-

The Higher-born have no place with humans. Most know it and so do not mingle with mortals.

But a few cannot resist the call and one such took the woman-name of Mary, damning the world for her love.

-

Samuel had the best of intentions. He wanted to purge the world of evil, to eradicate the darkness. He wanted to punish the wicked and defend the innocent.

He never meant to hurt anyone who didn't deserve it. He thought he did the right thing.

Dean, however, felt deep inside the unnaturalness of their actions. For some, they are so innately good they can never fully shed the remnants of light. And Dean, even tarnished with Darkness, still had a shine about him.

But he would follow Sam through Hell's worst corners, and so he shall.

And Heaven, all its denizens and beings, the Father and Son included, weep.

Sam hears only the Seducer, and Dean listens only to Sam—

They had the best of intentions, like their parents before them.

-

Heaven cannot look away. They are hunters, magnificent and glorious—even in the darkest of places, there is still a brilliance to the elder, Mary's beloved firstborn. And Sam—still doing his best, Heaven can see bits of the kind boy he'd been.

Watching them, He can only mourn. Watching them, He can only lament their loss—the Seducer has claimed their souls. Watching them, He marvels at such flawed perfection—

And the Lord had thought Lucifer was beautiful.


	9. I'm Sorry

_Title: I'm Sorry_

_Disclaimer: Not my characters. Lyrics are "I'm Sorry" by John Denver. Just for fun. _

_Warnings: total AU sometime after "Home"_

_Pairings: John/Mary_

_Rating: PG13_

_Wordcount: 1065_

_Point of view: third_

* * *

_I'm sorry, _he screams with everything in him without a sound. _I'm so, so sorry._

Since it's never mattered before, it sure as hell doesn't now.

-

He can see her sometimes, out the edge of his eye. See her in that white nightgown, see her golden hair blowing in the breeze, see her hazel eyes full of fear and pain and love.

And he sees the blood pouring out the gash in her stomach and he sees the fire licking her form, and he feels—despair. And rage.

And every time he sees her, his quest settles a little more firmly on his shoulders.

-

_I'm sorry, _he whispers, pulling the boy close. _I'm so, so sorry._

Since it never matter before, anything he had to say, any apology he could force out, it sure as hell doesn't now.

Especially since they both know he doesn't mean it.

* * *

**I'm sorry for the way things are in China  
I'm sorry things ain't what they used to be  
But more than anything else  
I'm sorry for myself  
'Cause you're not here with me**

* * *

He can hear her voice sometimes, just a murmur in the wind. _I love you, _she says. _I forgive you. I'm waiting for you._

And once, when their oldest turned eighteen, a hunter and killer and unable to ever escape, _I think I hate you, John. Look what you've done to him._

_Look at him, John. Look at what you've done to Dean. _

_I'm sorry, _he whispers at the grave. _I'm so, so sorry, Mary. Forgive me. _

_He did, Dad,_ Dean says, stepping up beside him, a gun in one hand and a sword in the other_. Sam forgave you, with his last breath._ Dean's voice is ragged and John doesn't look over, but he knows Dean's just about worn out.

He can feel Mary looking at him through Dean's eyes, and guilt encroaches on his edges.

_But I can't._ Dean's voice is low, dangerous, and pride nearly swells at the thing he's turned his son into.

* * *

Mary rolls over to face John and kisses the tip of his nose. _I love you, _her eyes tell him and he smiles in response. _I love you, too._

It is their wedding night. Neither has any inkling of what is to come.

Neither would believe it, even if they knew.

_-_

_I'm sorry, _she told him.

_For what? _he asked.

She didn't answer, but as she turned to face the poltergeist, she glanced at her oldest and tried to communicate to him exactly what she apologized for. It'd be nearly five years before she knew she'd failed. And by then—it was too late and her Sammy was home with her.

-

He stands in moonlight, dagger in one hand and Sammy's curved knife in the other. The forest around him is still, silent; not even crickets disturb the peace.

John should feel scared, but all he feels is emptiness. The quest is finished; Mary is avenged. It cost him both sons and his soul and any chance of seeing Mary again, but—it's done. The ropes are tight on his wrists and ankles; they cut into his skin, but he almost relishes the pain.

He knows he deserves it, but he still doesn't feel regret.

Dean raises his head, eyes dark in the shadows cast by the trees and clouds, and the weapons glint silver. John can just barely see the smile.

And now, he feels fear.

* * *

There is only one grave for the Winchester's of Lawrence, Kansas. And it doesn't even have a body in it.

Only one grave site, only one tombstone, only one funeral. Two of the family were worthy, however. And only those two made it to Heaven and met the Power's who had fucked them over face-to-face.

_-_

_I'm sorry, _he whispers, cutting open his baby boy. _I'm so sorry, Sammy._

_Shut up, _Sammy manages, holding back the screams. _Shut up. _

Dean does not say _I'm sorry. _Dean does not say _I hate you. _Dean does not demand _How could you? He was your son! _Dean does not speak at all.

John doesn't answer any of the questions Dean doesn't ask. It wouldn't matter, anyway. It wouldn't change the final paragraphs of the novel that is his life.

And it wouldn't change where he's going after he's breathed his last.

* * *

_I'm sorry, _Dean whispers, cradling Sammy's body. _Whatever did this—it'll pay. _It never crosses his mind the monster that mutilated his baby brother is their father. It never crosses his mind that their dad avenged their mother by killing the youngest son.

It never crosses his mind that their father thinks Sammy is the root cause, because he's always known Sammy wasn't. Always known Sammy was the innocent, the only true innocent left.

And then he notices Dad on the edge of the clearing, highlighted in the cold moonlight, blood still dripping down him. And he watches Dad turn and walk away, striding like a man who's accomplished something.

His arms tighten around Sammy. For the first time, he feels hate. It wells up from deep inside, and if he doesn't control it, he knows it'll consume him. Like it did his father.

So he kisses Sammy's brow and releases the detestation, he lets it flow into the night around him, and he feels—calm. There are no more emotions.

Dean has become the perfect hunter.

_-_

_I'm sorry _is something he never said again.

* * *

**It's cold here in the city  
It always seems that way  
And I've been thinking about you almost everyday**


	10. Samial

_**Title: Samial**_

_**Disclaimer: Not my characters. Just for fun.**_

_**Warnings: AU; spoilers for pilot**_

**_Pairings: John/Mary_**

**_Rating: PG13_**

**_Wordcount: 1145_**

**_Point of view: third_**

**_Dedication: _H.T. Marie**

_

* * *

_

The day he was born, Grandmommy made him the necklace. She collected a teaspoon of her blood, a tablespoon of her tears, and a pint of rainwater. She mixed them all together and then poured them into the mold.

She handed it to Daddy three days later and said, "Give it to him on his twentieth birthday. And make him swear to never take it off."

-

John hands the charm to him at noon on a Friday. Doesn't look him in the eye. Just says, "Here, son. Your grandmother wanted you to have this."

Dean takes it warily and studies it. He knows he recognizes it, just can't place it.

"Never take it off," John throws over his shoulder as he leaves for another hunt.

Sam gives him the leather strap later that night and they settle in to watch TV.

-

Dean never takes it off. For almost eight years.

-

Grandmommy didn't tell Daddy what the necklace was, and Mommy never knew about it. Grandmommy would have made Sammy one, too, except she died the month before he was conceived.

-

Samial visited him the night he was six months old. Visited and talked and stared. Would have cursed, but for a golden charm hidden somewhere in the house.

If he didn't have a schedule to keep and others to visit, Samial would have found that charm and burned it before too much time passed.

But he got distracted, poor thing, and had to wait four years.

-

Sometimes, Samial thinks it was better that way. Other times, he wishes the firstborn had been his from the start.

-

Three weeks shy of his twenty-eighth birthday, Dean gives the necklace to Sam.

-

Across the world, in a six-month-old's nursery, Samial turns. Smirks. And the baby laughs as he vanishes into mist.

-

Grandmommy knew what she was doing. Too bad she never shared.

-

Sam asked, "Why are you giving me this?" as he held the charm in his hand. Now that it was away from his brother, he could feel the power of it.

Dean shrugged. "With everything that's happenin', you need it more than me."

-

Grandmommy had meant to make two, but the child had to have a heartbeat for it to work. There had to be something to tie the magic into, the magic of blood and tears and nature itself.

Grandmommy looked down from Heaven, holding her daughter's hand tight, and sobbed.

-

Samial waited until they were asleep to enter, just like over two decades before. The charm had already started to cancel out his Gifts and he knew he needed to move quickly.

He'd always wanted the firstborn, but that damned witch—

And the boy's hazel eyes shot open.

"You."

-

Twenty-four years and the golden eyes never left him. Always stared at him, studied him, mocked him.

Asked him if he thought he could escape for long.

Twenty-four years and his hazel eyes always said, _Yes. _

It finally came for him and Sammy slept on.

-

He hears Grandmommy singing and Mommy joining in and Daddy saying over it all, _Take your brother outside as fast as you can! Don't look back! Now, Dean, go! _

He hears a storm break and thunder roaring and the snap of lightning, but he can't see at all.

He's almost glad, in a way. The scent of sulfur and blood is strong—not being able to see or feel makes it a whole lot easier.

-

Grandmommy sang a spell into the charm. It was protection, for as long as Dean wore the necklace, and before.

It would protect him until he put it on, and then until he took it off.

Grandmommy had a grand idea, truly, but her execution was a bit flawed.

-

Even if Dean had known the depth of power in his necklace, how much it protected him, he still would have given it to Sam.

He'd have just given it a hell of a lot sooner.

-

Samial smirks down at the boy and holds out a hand. The firstborn looks over at his brother, still sleeping, and then back at Samial.

"He is protected," Samial says softly, "but his children will not be. Come with me now and I'll leave your family alone forever."

"Anyone of my blood? Anyone who marries in?" Dean asks and Samial nods.

"I swear, dear boy. And though I may kill, torture, and maim—I do not lie."

-

When Sam wakes up, Dean's gone. Words hang in the room, though—_It's for the best, Sammy. Forgive me. I'm so, so sorry._

Sulfur and blood mingle, and Sam spends ten years searching every dead-end trail in the world.

He never takes off the necklace. Along with the Impala and the leather jacket, it's all that's left of his brother.

-

And Sam can't believe that Dean left voluntarily. Leaving behind all weapons? The _Impala_? After having been abandoned by Dad and Sam, Dean would _never_ leave without a word.

But ten years down the road, ten years of hunting alone and becoming better than Dad ever was, ten years of the open wound on his soul bleeding out, he turns and there Dean stands.

Older. Harder. Wearier. But still _Dean_ in a way that burns.

"You have to stop now," Dean says softly. "You can't look anymore."

Sam wants to embrace his brother so much it hurts, but he knows he can't. "Why?" he asks instead and knows his voice says it all.

"Because you need to move on. Live your life, Sammy." His eyes are suspiciously bright and Sam holds back his own tears. "Swear to me you'll live the life you wanted before I pulled you back into this mess," Dean begs.

Sam closes his eyes and turns his head to the side. He knows when he looks again, Dean'll be gone. "I swear," he whispers.

-

It isn't until five more years pass he fully settles down. Marries a blonde with hazel eyes, has two kids and a dog.

He doesn't name either of them any family names at all.

-

Sam researched the charm. He thinks someone might have whispered the words on the night air, but he isn't sure. He makes two of them.

-

Dean gave up a lot for him, but Sam just needs to be certain.

_-_

_If I become what we hunt, Sammy, end me._

_Dean… what if I can't?_

_You have to._

_Would you for me?_

… _in a heartbeat. _

_-_

"Liar," Sam says to the room.

-

The day he was born, Grandmommy made him the necklace. He wore it nearly eight years, till the day he died.

His little brother wore it for fifty more years and it was buried with him.

Grandmommy and Mommy and finally Daddy and Sammy waited for him to come home, but he knew he never would.

Samial claimed him the night he was six months old and Samial never lets go.


	11. Settle for a Slowdown

_Title: Settle for a Slowdown_

_Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun._

_Warnings: spoilers for pilot; AU during season 1_

_Pairings: none_

_Rating: PG_

_Wordcount: 1265_

_Point of view: third_

* * *

The first time Sam left Dean, they were still kids. 

Sam'd had another fight with Dad about school and hunting and Dad not minding when Dean leaped in the way, almost dying. They went around and around, repeating for hours—they hadn't said anything new in years.

Dean stood in the doorway, watching and listening and trying not to cry because he was the strong one, wasn't he? Dad and Sam screamed and shouted and threw stuff—never at each other, just in general—and finally one would storm away.

At ten years old, Sam thought he knew best so he told Dad, "I'm gone," and stalked out the door.

Dad just snarled, "Go," and stormed to the kitchen to where he'd hidden the beer. He slammed stuff around, searching, but Dean'd poured it out days before.

Dean stood in the doorway for a few more minutes, trying to process what Sam could possibly mean. _I'm gone. _But he was just a kid. Where could he go?

So Dean flew out the door, chased by Dad's curses and the room still filled with the scent of his blood—his body wasn't up for this, this headlong rush after Sam, but he had to catch his brother before something happened.

He found Sam on a park bench as the sun rose. He slid down beside him, whole right side on fire, and Sam had to help him home.

As a repentant Dad and Sam put him to bed, Dean slurred, "Don't ever leave me 'gain, 'kay?"

Sam nodded and Dad's eyes swore.

Dean never once told them he saw the lie.

-

Eight years passed and Sam's promise slipped his mind. Caught up in school and making it to college and hiding all evidence from his brother and father, Dean fell into second place.

For so long he'd been first and he didn't notice for a long while, because somewhere along the way Sam grew into a mighty fine actor.

Not as good as Dean—never as good as Dean—but damned close.

For almost a decade, Sam and Dad had fought about the same old stuff, Dean always in the middle, trying to keep the peace in the midst of a maelstrom. He never took a side, even in his head, because he knew it would show.

Of course, he was seen as the traitor by both, even as they leaned on him more and more.

His nightmares consisted of being left behind, either because they died or grew bored. So, to protect them, he started getting more injured, taking hits meant for them, taking raking claws and glistening fangs and slams into walls.

Which only intensified the fighting, because Sam and Dad blamed each other.

And then… "Dad…" Sam began softly one night, near his graduation. "I got… I got into Stanford."

Dad glanced up from his hamburger and Dean slid a sidelong look to his little brother. _Now's not the time, _his eyes said. _Wait until later tonight._

Sam continued anyway. "Dad, you don't have to pay anything, 'kay? I got a scholarship."

"Stanford's in California," Dad said, taking a long gulp of his Coke. "Why do you wanna go there?"

"Because it's one of the best schools in the country," Sam answered, and by his tone they all knew he really said, _Because it's so far away. Away from you. Away from this life._

Dean lowered his head and was the only one to finish his meal as they tore into each other.

They both demanded he fight on their side, and for once he wished he could. He wanted to tell Dad that Sam needed to go, that this life was killing him.

_He's not like us, _Dean wanted to explain. _He can't live like this, without a place to grow roots. He's got dreams, Dad, big dreams. Dreams he can actually see through. He doesn't remember Mom—this isn't his quest._

And he wanted to tell Sam, _Dad just wants to protect you, Sammy. The thought of you so far away, away from his knowledge and skill, away from him when after eighteen years you've been his world—it terrifies him. More than anything._

But he kept his mouth shut and finally left, knowing Sam had truly left long before.

-

And then Dad ran. Abandoned him with no warning, no clue, not even the shadow of a ghost of a hint.

Dean was really getting tired of being left behind.

He waited a while, nearly two weeks, thinking Dad might've just headed on to a new hunt and forgotten to check in. No calls, no texts, nothing.

So he headed on to Stanford, first time he'd seen Sammy face to face in two years.

He hated having to disturb his little brother almost as much as the fact that Sammy'd left. But he played the part well, so well Sam didn't even know how close Dean really was to the edge. Didn't glimpse the small breakdowns in his psyche, the scars he and Dad had caused.

Sam didn't hear Dean ask, _Do you ever get tired of leaving me? _as he walked back toward his apartment, to law school, to Jessica and the normality he'd craved ever since he'd learned everyone didn't hunt.

Sam didn't hear Dean's soul cry out for something, anything, a breadcrumb, as he drove the Impala away.

And Sam didn't hear Dean curse himself when he pulled Sam away from Jessica's burning body.

_I'm so sorry, Sammy, _Dean silently screamed over and over in the following weeks. _I'm so, so sorry. _

-

And Dean knew Sam would leave him again. Knew it with a certainty he'd felt about nothing else.

It was his life. He did his damned hardest to give people reasons to stay, and they kept on finding new reasons to go. He wasn't even sure what he did wrong, most of the time, but he knew his exterior was bristly, knew his tones and words pushed outsiders away.

Defense mechanisms couldn't be helped when you grew up in a war-zone and were the only peacekeeper.

Oh, he could be charming when he had to be, when he wanted to be. Could be the most charming person on Earth, second to Sam, who only had to turn on the little-lost-orphan-please-trust-me look he'd perfected by three.

They were an excellent team, and they both knew it, but Dean was the only one who wanted to keep it that way.

With every breath, every look, Sam told Dean, _We find Dad, we find Jessica's killer, and I'm gone._

And Dean always responded, _I know. _

In his dreams, Dean begged "Don't leave me. Not again."

And Sam and Dad always said, "Of course I won't," but then they'd walk away.

-

All they ever did was walk away.

And then Dad flew away, to Heaven and the angels and Mom. Mom and Jessica were avenged and Dean lay prone on the ground, bleeding out too quickly for any aid at all.

Sam knelt beside him, held his hands to the wounds, begged Dean to _hold on, keep your eyes open, okay, help's on the way_, _please, don't go._

"I'm not the one who goes, Sam," he whispered, eyes failing.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam whispered back, pulling Dean into his arms and sobbing. "I'm so sorry, for everything."

"I know," Dean answered, heart finally giving up.

"Don't leave me," Sam murmured, eyes shut against the reality. "Please, don't leave me."

And his subconscious provided the answer Dean would never have said in a billion lifetimes.

_You left me first, Sammy. You left me first. _


	12. Upon a Time

_Title: Upon a Time_

_Disclaimer: Not my characters. Just for fun._

_Warnings: spoilers for pilot and "Something Wicked"_

_Pairings: none_

_Rating: PG_

_Wordcount: 1115_

* * *

You know about the saying _no castle can have two kings_ and you know that happy endings don't really happen in real life and you know Sammy never fell in love with the hunt like you did. You know that Dad and Sam are too much alike and you know that you've taken on the role Mom would have had—peacekeeper and safe haven for whichever of them needs patching up, listener and comforter. 

And you know it's not right. You know too much has been placed on your shoulders, and you were too young for such a burden when it was first given to you. You know it isn't fair, but you also know it is what it is, and it can't be changed.

They need you, even if they never fully realize it. But, more than that—you need them.

-

You patch up wounds on bodies and souls as well you can, and you know it's not enough. It'll never be enough. Dad sees you like a soldier instead of a son, and Sam sometimes tells you you're more of a parent than Dad ever was.

But you can remember what life used to be like, before November and flames. You can remember Momma and Daddy, you can remember hugs and kisses and laughter and the scent of cookies baking. You can remember tossing a football and being swung around and playing with toys that weren't weapons for killing.

You can remember. But Sam can't. And you tell him bedtime stories about the life you know he'll never get.

-

You drive Sam to the bus station in silence, neither strained nor comfortable. You don't speak about all the thoughts whirling around in you, about the pain of his leaving and the fear that you won't be able to protect him anymore. You don't tell him Mom would be proud or that Dad is, too, even if he never says the words. You don't tell him you're proud and that you wish you were able to leave, sometimes, wish you could stretch towards your dreams with such a single-minded determination. You don't tell him he can always call you, for anything, and that he only needs to ask for you and you'll stop at nothing to get to him.

You don't say how much you love him, how he's the best part of your life and always has been.

He doesn't say he's sorry for hurting you. He doesn't say his only regret is leaving you behind. He doesn't say he loves you or thank you for everything you've done.

But you hear what he doesn't say, and you know he didn't hear you.

-

No castle can have two kings and Dad is the supreme ruler. You follow his orders without question, without complaint.

You are not a son. You are a soldier. Sam could never accept that and you're glad he escaped, because you never wanted him to.

You've done many things over the years to keep him happy, keep him fed, keep him innocent. Dad never asks what you did and you never plan on telling him. You hope Sam, when you meet up with him again, doesn't ask. You bet that he won't.

-

Sam's happy with the blonde, happier than he ever was with you and Dad. You watch from afar for nearly two years as Sam woos Jessica, as they fall in love, as they contemplate a future together.

You wonder if Jessica ever asks about Sam's scars and what he uses as a lie.

Of course, he has less than you, far less. Ever since Dad shoved him into your arms, he's been yours to protect, no matter how or from what.

You never counted how many scars you have to keep him from getting them, but you bet he knows the tally.

He always was the type to hug guilt close. One of the reasons he could walk away without a look back.

-

You never challenge Dad because you know the price paid when you do. Sam nearly died because you were bored and you've never forgotten that even though he doesn't remember.

So when Dad tells you it's time hunt separately you're fine with it. You're almost proud that he finally acknowledges your experience, your readiness. Twice as much ground is covered, twice as much evil is defeated, and you have no one to watch your back, but that's fine because you're twice as careful.

You check on Sam less and less. You've checked and double-checked Stanford's campus and put up enough protection to keep Sam safe for two hundred years.

Besides, you know he still does his own protections. Some things can be left behind, but not such a base caution.

-

Once upon a time, you know, there lived a king and a queen who had a son. He was a happy child, with light blond hair and shining hazel eyes. He was a bouncy toddler, always laughing and smiling. The sun shone on him; he had such a bright future.

The king and queen had another son, another baby; he, too, was happy, always smiling joyfully. The elder fell in love with the baby; he swore, too young to fully understand, that he would always keep his brother safe.

An evil wizard visited the castle in the middle of a November night and threatened the younger prince. The queen rushed to his defense and died to keep him safe. The king swooped in, awakened by his beloved's scream, and the wizard was gone. Only the laughing baby remained. The king smiled down at his son and parts of him died when the queen's blood fell on his hand.

The elder prince, summoned by his mother's cry and the roar of flames and the king's shouts of denial and something he'd never be able to articulate, ran out of his room and the king shoved his brother into his arms, commanding him to leave, to get the baby out of there.

-

Once upon a time, you know, there lived a roaming warrior, training his sons to follow in his footsteps. The elder loved learning how to fight, to kill evil—he remembered the night that led to this point, but the younger couldn't, the younger hated it.

The warrior taught them both well, but the younger wanted out, a life away from blood and death and danger. So he made his plans and he told the warrior and the warrior said, "If you leave, don't come back."

The elder said nothing, so the younger did.

-

Once upon a time—but once upon a time is once upon a time, and you no longer live in a fairytale.


	13. return to dust

**Title**: return to dust

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from "Jar of Clay" by Pinmonkey.

**Warnings**: future fic; character death; non-con

**Pairings**: Bobby/Ellen, Gordon/Dean

**Rating**: R

**Wordcount**: 1135

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

_I'll never forgive you, _Dean says, and Sam responds, _Just let go. _

o0o

Whenever the young pups come 'round asking for the stories, Bobby doesn't mind giving them up. It doesn't feel like betrayal anymore, more'n fifteen years on.

There are some he doesn't tell, though, figuring he doesn't have the right. But most… when he speaks the words, he nearly sees John's boys again.

o0o

The final blow comes far sooner than Dean'd expected, and from a source he'd never imagined.

_Hey, Dean, _Jo purrs, and her eyes never turn black at all.

The ropes bite into his skin, and his head aches; the blow had come out of nowhere, from one of the last people in the world he trusted.

Dean studies her: she's not possessed, just insane, which is worse. So much worse. —_Gordon_—

_Why don't you tell me where Sam is, Dean? _she asks, cooing, caressing his jaw. He glares at her, not surprised when she just smiles. After being raised by Ellen, there's not much that can scare a person.

_Bitch, _Dean mutters.

Jo just keeps smiling.

o0o

Ellen can't think of John's boys with anything but guilt. It wasn't her fault and she knows it—but the death-blow came from her own blood.

She'd hoped to keep her baby-girl away from the darkness that stole Billy, but Jo lost herself, sometime after Sam's possession… and then Gordon(_dangerous bastard_) got a hold of her.

Ellen doesn't own a saloon anymore, but lives with Bobby on his speck of land in South Dakota. She tends the garden out back, hunting if a hunt comes her way. Bobby's the unofficial president of their little club, and the new pups look up to him.

She's not much of anything anymore, just a worn-out old woman who remembers better days, when she had her little girl and her husband, instead of a grizzled old warrior and useless regrets.

o0o

Dean's glad Sammy's gone. First time he's ever had that thought in his entire life, and the sincerity of it catches him off-guard.

It's all Jo demands: Sam's location. Sometimes Gordon comes with her, sometimes not, but it's always the same question.

_Where's Sammy, Dean? _Jo's—_Gordon's_—voice is soft. Kind. Like a caring friend.

Dean never answers, just smirks, even when he's almost forgotten why.

o0o

Kat and Michael love retelling how Dean Winchester saved them—with help from Sam, of course. No story of Dean is complete without Sam. Sarah and Cassie sometimes chime in, both with a wistfulness anyone who remembers the Winchesters understands. Andrea just clutches her son's hand with a sad smile.

o0o

Gordon grows less patient by the hour, glaring at Dean like it's his fault.

Which, okay, it is. But Dean's not giving up Sam to anyone, no matter the cost. Gordon, the crazy bastard, is just gonna have to live with that.

Jo just smiles in the corner, her eyes drifting from Dean to Gordon and back. _There's one persuasion you haven't tried yet, Gordy, _she murmurs and Dean closes his eyes.

Here it comes.

Dean's not a fool—he knows exactly how appealing he is. But if that yellow-eyed bastard couldn't break him, no way in _hell_ a human will.

o0o

Bobby often watches the sunrise, holding Ellen close. They don't speak, sitting on his porch in silence.

Asher and Rosie cling to each other by their feet, Michael by his brother and Kat beside Rosie.

_They're happy, right? _Rosie asks, every morning.

Bobby always says, _Yep, they sure are._

o0o

Dean doesn't make a sound. Jo watches with wide, excited eyes. Gordon curses and grunts, and Dean wants him dead.

But there won't be an escape. Sam's safe, and he knows better than to come for Dean.

He'd better stay the fuck away, or Dean'll kick his ass.

o0o

Not even Bobby—who knows most everything there is to know about the Winchesters—is sure how it went down.

Missouri could tell him, if she felt so inclined. But she doesn't.

o0o

Dean's barely conscious and far from caring when an explosion rocks the room. Gordon pulls back, then rolls off him, shouting a question Dean doesn't catch at Jo.

She shrieks something back, and the terror in her voice reaches Dean in the fog. He tries focusing but can't, sinking further into himself.

It hurts so much, so deep inside, and he'd thought himself used to pain. Jo screams—and if Dean were more awake, more himself, he'd take a dark pleasure in the sound.

Gordon's babbling, though Dean can't make out anything more than the noise, can't understand what Gordon's saying.

It seems like begging, from far away, but going by Gordon's keen it doesn't work.

o0o

Missouri dreams about that final encounter, the one that cost Dean his life and Sam his sanity. It's not a fittin' end for John's boys, and she wishes it could've gone better. They deserved more, so much more—damn that Gordon Walker and his little whore.

She can't hear the boys' words in her dream, just watch as Sam kneels beside his brother, pulls Dean into his arms. He's frantic and terrified, begging Dean—she can make out that much.

She wakes before Dean dies, every time.

o0o

He isn't really aware, but he feels the hands on him, pulling him close, can barely hear the voice—familiar—crooning in his ear. He doesn't understand the words, just the tone, and it's _safe_.

And when he realizes who it is, he's pissed as he can be, floating in the fog. _Oh, hell no._ His voice is hoarse and shattered, and Sam's arms tighten around him.

_I'm here, Dean,_ he says. _It's alright now._

_Wasn't 'sposed to come,_ Dean manages. _'sposed to leave me, Sammy. Stay safe._

_Leave you?_ Sam scoffs, a light hand brushing hair off Dean's forehead. _Never_.

o0o

It was Jefferson who found the bodies, called Ellen and Bobby. No one knew quite what to make of it, but everybody knew Gordon Walker's view about psychics. And everyone knew that Jo Harvelle never was the same after a possessed Sam Winchester paid her a visit.

It looked like Gordon had gone crazy, killed Jo and the Winchesters, but Ellen and Bobby knew better. They never spoke of it, though, even to themselves. Neither could stand to be alone after that, so they fell together, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Bobby's house became a frequent stop for hunters, old and new alike, who wanted to know about the legendary Winchesters. One of the stories he never told, though, was how they died.

So far as anyone but Jefferson, Ellen, or Bobby knew, Dean and Sam were still out there, somewhere, doing what they did best.

_And that's the way it should be_, Ellen tells Bobby at sunset, a few months after. _John's boys, out hunting… _

Bobby nods.


	14. blood on the undersole

**Title**: blood on the undersole thickening to glass

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Adrienne Rich.

**Warnings**: AU for "Hunted" and everything after; non-con; character death

**Pairings**: Gordon/Dean

**Rating**: R

**Wordcount**: 1390

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: _months_ ago, I sent this to H.T.Marie for a looksie, because I had _no_ idea what to do with it. Now, it's finally finished. Thank you, dearie!

* * *

"There's a word for people like you, boy."

Gordon's voice is low in his ear, soft and vicious and inescapable as dusk. His hands are hard and warm, trailing along Dean's body, and Dean hates him.

"You know what it is?" Gordon asks, biting Dean's shoulder, breaking the skin. "Guess."

Dean refuses to give him the satisfaction of any noise at all, and Gordon chuckles.

"Fine, then," Gordon says. "I'll tell you." He slaps Dean, knocking his head to the side. "_Traitor_."

-

_It began a year ago. He thinks. Can't be sure of anything anymore. Not since "friends" left him in Gordon's custody and went after Sam._

_They haven't caught him yet. He knows because Gordon takes out his anger on Dean. Dean relishes the pain, revels in it—because Sam's free. Sam's safe as he can be without Dean watching his back._

_Ellen has told him how sorry she is, how she wishes there were any other way. Dean spat at her and snarled; she fled without a look back, and hasn't visited him since._

_Bobby's doing his best to get Dean free, but it's slow going. Not many hunters are on their side, and the ones that aren't see Gordon as the leader. Gordon told Dean that he's sent a hunter after Bobby—traitors can't be left alive. Dean's almost convinced himself that Gordon was lying, that he wouldn't dare._

_Gordon tried swaying Dean to his sick-fuck views, promised Dean he'll be let go the instant he swears allegiance._

_Dean just coldly stared at him, his broken arm cradled to his chest, breathing shallowly because of his bruised ribs._

_"__**Never**__," he said._

_And Gordon—sickbastard__**fuck**__—smiled. _

-

Dean's days are filled with boredom, his nights with pain. Gordon's the only one who touches him, but that's comfort colder than a Siberian winter.

He's allowed to roam the property; there are guards to keep him within the gates and away from the weapons. He killed five before they learned their lesson. He killed six before he learned his.

When Gordon summons him, Dean answers promptly, not even bothering to shield the loathing in his eyes. Gordon takes pleasure in it, the disgusting bastard.

Dean tried killing Gordon, in the beginning. Tried snapping his neck, strangling him, stabbing him—it earned him scars and broken bones.

Apparently, Gordon likes to have an audience. And hunters don't like it when people try murdering their boss.

-

_Dean told Sam the truth Dad whispered in his ear. Sam took off in the middle of the night. Dean tracked him down and watched him talk to that cute girl._

_And then Gordon started shooting at Sammy._

-

Gordon makes him sit in on councils about how to deal with the psychic threat. Makes him listen as they list all the psychics murdered—"put down," Gordon calls it. Like they weren't innocent kids.

They keep a tally that doubles monthly, finally topping two hundred. Dean feels sick as Gordon reads off the names and powers, pride in his voice.

The day he hears Andy's name, Dean actually retches all over Gordon's shoes.

-

_Dean went berserk on Gordon's bastard ass, but Gordon had friends. He woke in a dark room, chained hand and foot, naked as a newborn, bruised and bloody._

_He hasn't seen or spoken to Sam since._

_Gordon told him, in those first, dark days, that Sam would come for him and die. Dean told him that Sam wasn't that stupid._

_Since Sam's never come for him, Dean guesses he was right, and he tells himself he's more relieved than hurt. _

-

Gordon trains with Dean every few days, keeping him sharp. Dean takes each possible opening to make Gordon bleed.

The sick fuck takes pleasure in that, too.

It's been a year and he's no closer to escaping than he was in the beginning. He intimately knows everything about Gordon and Gordon's operation, but he can't do anything with the knowledge, can't put it to good use.

As Gordon presses him into the wall and Dean feels shards of wood digging into his face, one of Gordon's lackeys rushes in with the words, "We got the bitch."

-

Missouri hasn't changed one bit. She doesn't cower before Gordon, but sasses at him. He slaps her when she says his mama is disappointed.

Dean lunges forward and tackles Gordon, unable to take any more. He may've never liked her, but still—you just don't hit women. He's wrestled off immediately and beaten down, but his gaze never leaves Missouri.

_He's coming_, her voice whispers across his mind. _Hold on just a little longer, honey. He's coming for you, and boy is he angry._

-

She dies at dawn and Dean doesn't speak for almost a month. He isn't let out of Gordon's rooms, and Gordon takes his pleasure. Dean follows his commands instantaneously, soft and pliant as a rag-doll.

At first, Gordon seems pleased. But finally he whips Dean's back bloody and demands, "Where'd the wildcat go? I know you're in there somewhere."

Dean doesn't respond and Gordon slams the door as he leaves.

-

_He's coming_, her voice murmurs in his dreamscape. _Hold on just a little longer, honey. He's coming._

When Dean first hears the screams, he thinks it a part of his dream. When the explosion rocks the building, he doesn't even give it a second thought, trying to sink into himself, into memories of his life before Stanford, back when Sam was _Sammy_ and all he wanted was his big brother's attention. Back when Dad was alive and they were together—he even goes back to Mommy, her golden hair and soft tones and the way she held him close.

It's been over a year since he saw Sam, and he's so tired.

-

Dean's barely conscious when Gordon rushes into the room, locking the door behind him. "Get up, Winchester," he snarls, gripping Dean's shoulder. "We gotta go, now."

Gordon drags Dean as he hurries through his quarters. The building rocks with another explosion and the scent of smoke wafts on the air. Gordon's muttering a litany of curses, his fingers digging deep into Dean's flesh.

They're on the second floor and Gordon finally stops in front of a large window. "Out," he says, pushing Dean in front of him.

"What?" Dean asks. His back aches, blood sticky and cool on his skin, and his head feels hazy. A part of him wonders if he's still dreaming.

Gordon slaps him across the face and Dean loses his balance, slumps down. "Now is not the time to question me," Gordon growls, sounding panicked. Dean's never heard that tone before.

Dean stares up at him, at the wide eyes and sweat dripping down his face. _He's frightened_, Dean realizes. _Terrified_.

Part of him howls with glee. He asks, "What's going on?" and rises to his feet, getting back some of his bearing. His mind clears a little. There's no way he's going out of that window. Not alive, anyway.

Gordon reaches out and grips Dean's neck, hard. "Do as I say," he tells Dean, and shoves him toward the window.

Dean twists to the side, pulling away. He's clumsy and slow, bogged down by pain and confusion, but he is _not_ going out that window.

In the distance, fire roars. Gordon looks toward the sound. "You wanna stay here?" he says, voice torn by fear. "Fine." He grabs a small table and throws it through the glass, then climbs out. "Burn in hell," he shoots over his shoulder and is gone.

Dean slumps down to the floor, too tired to even think about escaping the fire. Too tired to do anything.

It's been a year since he had good sleep, and the smoke really doesn't smell that bad. Not bad enough to keep him from slipping under…

-

_Your brother's been busy, Dean, _Missouri'd murmured in his mind as she died. _Gordon's mobilized the hunters; Sam's prepared the psychics. War is coming, but we didn't start it._

She glanced at him, hands bound behind her back, Gordon aiming the gun. _Sam will finish it, _she promised. _Remember that, Dean. He's coming._

_-_

Smoke pervades his dreams, and he's four years old, baby brother in his arms, fire at his back, Mommy's scream and Daddy's cry following him down the stairs.

Smoke pervades his dreams, and he can't feel anything beyond heat.


	15. tempted our attempt

**Title**: tempted our attempt, and wrought our fall

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from John Milton's _Paradise Lost_.

**Warnings**: non-con; future!fic

**Pairings**: Lucifer/Dean

**Rating**: R

**Wordcount**: 1275

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: written for cwspnfairytale, to _Hades and Persephone_.

* * *

Dean has the run of Hell, can go anywhere. Demons follow him, on their King's orders, but only to keep him from leaving. No denizen of the underworld can touch him unless he tries to open a door Out. And then, all they can do is carry him back to the Palace.

Lucifer hasn't hurt him. Has barely spoken to him. Only smiles at him, gently touches his face.

Dean's completely weirded out, and really wants to go home, back to sunlight and Sammy.

o0o

_Dean vanished on a Thursday. Sam tore apart the town, then the county, then the state. They'd broken the deal, defeated Lilith, and had been in the clear. _

_Then Dean vanished and Sam lost his mind._

_o0o_

Dean's room is opulent, black velvet blankets, black leather couch and chair, dark marble walls and floor, and a whirlpool in the bathroom. It's better than any living quarters he ever had Above, and he can't even enjoy it because Sammy's not here.

Lucifer sits across from him at every meal, wearing a different shape each time. He's been every nationality and both genders, and Dean hasn't responded to any of them. He also hasn't eaten or drunk anything. So far, he hasn't gotten hungry or thirsty.

Dean spends most of his time looking for a way out, peering into nooks and crannies. He walks around the perimeters, searching for a weak spot.

He doesn't know why Lucifer allows his exploration, or even, really, what Lucifer wants. He has his suspicions, though, and they make him cringe.

o0o

_Sam demanded help from every contact he had, and they agreed. The entire country was scoured, but no hint of Dean could be found. Weeks became months became a year._

_The search slowed. Only Bobby kept up his pace, and only because he'd known them as boys. He didn't expect to find anything. And found nothing at all._

_o0o_

Finally, one night at supper(and Dean only knows what meal it is because of the food served), Lucifer steps behind him as he pulls out his chair. Lucifer's form is a tall, broad man, large enough to loom over Dean.

"I think you've played coy long enough," Lucifer drawls, one arm pulling Dean flush against him. "Make your decision. Now."

Dean's been anticipating this for months; now that the time is here, he's calm. "What are my options?" he asks, holding his body still.

Lucifer's cock is hard against him. He very carefully doesn't think about that.

"Be willing," Lucifer says, one hand caressing Dean's skull. "Or not."

Dean sucks in a breath.

o0o

_Sam collapsed on the anniversary of Dean's disappearance, his strung-out body finally having enough. He slept for three days and woke in a hospital. He snuck out, ready to continue the search._

_A hunt found him, when a demon-possessed girl tried strangling him after one step out the door._

_The Colt was destroyed with Lilith, but Sam no longer needed a tool: he had discovered its secret, and the demon—along with the host—died._

_Sam kept moving, nothing but his quest on his mind._

_o0o_

"You have until dinner tomorrow," Lucifer whispers, lips brushing Dean's ear. "at that meal, you will finally accept something I offer." He gently turns Dean around inside his arms, and Dean docilely lets him. "Look at me," Lucifer's deep voice rumbles.

Dean meets his gaze.

"You will tell me your decision, my dear." Lucifer's hand spans Dean's cheek, the skin burning against Dean's. "You are my consort either way, willingly or no."

Lucifer's form is tan, long dark hair to his shoulders. His eyes are cool gray with no pupil. "I will wear this shape," he says. "Unless you have a preference…"

"If I'm not willing," Dean asks, "do I still get to pick?"

Lucifer smiles, baring white fangs. "No."

o0o

_Sam took a page from that bitch Bella's book and contacted the OtherSide for aid. Every night for two weeks he communicated with a different ghost. Finally one had news he thought might be a lead._

_The spirit said her Dark Master had a new favorite, some mortal none of the Dark Court could touch. He was beautiful, as mortals went, and constantly looking for a way out. Certainly not worthy of the Dark Master._

_Sam knew he had to find a way to verify her story. Four nights later, another said the same thing._

_o0o_

Dean stands across the table from Lucifer, King of Hell, who is wearing that large man again. He waits patiently for Dean to gather his thoughts.

"I…" Dean starts. He licks his lips. "I don't want to be here, and I don't want you." He straightens his spine. "I refuse to be your whore."

"Very well," Lucifer replies, voice calm. "Your decision has been noted."

Dean doesn't see him move, but he feels that strong body against his, those giant hands ripping his clothes, and Lucifer's cock tearing into him.

He doesn't scream. Dean takes pride in that, when he comes back to himself in Lucifer's bed, Lucifer wrapped around him. Lucifer carefully pulls Dean up to lie in his embrace. "Any moment, you can choose to be willing," Lucifer murmurs into his hair. "Any moment, my dear. I am a considerate lover."

Dean doesn't have the strength to scoff.

Lucifer pets his hair for a while; lulled by the gentle, repetitive motion, Dean falls asleep.

He dreams of Sam.

o0o

_Sam forced his way into Hell on a Thursday, two years after Dean fell off the map. He left behind a wounded, bleeding world, ripped open by his fury and pain—Gordon Walker had a point, when he named Sam __**monster**__. All the power left over from the dead psychics had to go somewhere._

_In the hole Dean left, the power settled and spiraled higher with Sam's rage._

_o0o_

Every time after the first, Lucifer takes great care to pleasure Dean. Dean hates him for it. He doesn't want to enjoy any part of this—whatever the fuck _this_ is.

Dean's never allowed to leave the Palace anymore. At meals, he eats and drinks. He begins to respond to Lucifer's touch, and despises himself for it.

He loses all track of time, starts forgetting his life Above, who he was Before. Lucifer never uses his name. Down Below, no one does.

Curled up asleep in his Dark Master's warm embrace, he dreams of someone else, a man with floppy brown hair and sad green eyes, but he doesn't know who the man is.

o0o

_The first demon tried fighting. The second, as well. the third cringed before him but refused to speak._

_Sam killed them all, and strode unerringly for the Palace._

_o0o_

"My dear," Lucifer says, offering him a pomegranate. "Will you delight me by staying here forever?"

He takes the pomegranate and bites into it, savoring the sweet juice.

o0o

_The doors of the Dark Palace blew open before him, shattering against the pitted walls. He stalked in, ready to destroy anything that moved._

_"Welcome, Samuel Winchester," a deep voice boomed out, and Sam's gaze focused on the speaker: a man even larger than him, on a black throne. "I am the MorningStar, King of Hell."_

_Sam walked down to the throne, eyes on his enemy. The room was completely silent, no demon making a sound._

_"My dear," the Devil called, his lip twisted in a terrible grin. "Come greet our guest."_

_Sam felt his heart stutter-stop, horror swallowing him whole, as Dean gracefully sank next to the throne, kneeling at the Devil's side, eyes pure black and adoring face turned to the MorningStar._

_"He's possessed," Sam whispered._

_"No," the King of Hell replied gently. "He's not." _


	16. only time will tell

**Title**: only time will tell if it was time well spent

**Disclaimer**: none of them are mine; just for fun. Title from "Trip Around the Sun" performed by Martina McBride and Jimmy Buffet.

**Warnings**: AU

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 1140

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: _fairiekween13_ read one version of this and said, "You're gonna make me cry." Take that as you will. (And that wasn't even the final draft, with the ending.)

* * *

"I'll save you," Sam swears.

"'course you will," Dean lies.

--

Sam wants to spend all his time researching, digging deep into hidden texts and forgotten lore.

Dean just wants to spend his time with his brother.

--

One month gone, then two, and they've been from one ocean to the other. Hendrickson is still on their trail, almost caught up to them in Orlando—three days spent in Disneyworld, and Sam hadn't seen Dean smile like that since they were kids—but they made it out just in time, leaving a false trail all the way to Maine.

They don't hunt the first few months, just keep moving, northwesteastsouth, following Dean's inclinations and the stars. Sam wants to shake Dean, wants to demand _why, how dare you, you think I can live alone?_ But he doesn't, doesn't dare. Dean's always given everything.

Sam just won't let him go this time. Won't take off, won't back away. He'll stand with Dean until the end and show that bitch exactly who the Winchesters are.

--

Three months gone, four, five—Dean wants to hunt, wants to leave his mark on the world. He talks more, now, tells Sam stories about Mama and Daddy, about the early years. Sam knows he wants to make sure their history isn't forgotten.

Sam doesn't give up, but he doesn't search as blatantly. Dean watches him, tells him not to hope in vain, to not expect too much. "I'm not gettin' out of the deal," Dean says the first time Sam brings it up. "It'll cost too much."

Dean hasn't told him what the cost will be, no matter how much he asks.

--

Six, seven, eight, nine… Sam's hopes are fading fast, and Dean never says _I told you so_. He watches the sun rise, every morning like clockwork, and then the sun set. Sam's asked him not to do that to himself, but Dean answered, "It's not a countdown, Sammy."

Sam didn't know what to make of that, and Dean couldn't explain.

They go see Haley and her brothers, Andrea and Lucas, Sarah and Lori, Cassie. They check on Charlie, Matt and his family, Rebecca and Zach, Sam's Stanford friends. They visit with Ellen and Deacon and Bobby, track down Jo and Kat and Emily, sneak in to see Officers Kathleen and Ballard.

They spend month ten with Michael, Asher, and Joanna. Sam expects Dean to sleep with Joanna, then realizes that's a belief about Dean from Before. Dean imparts a wealth of Big Brother knowledge to Michael, helps Asher with his schoolwork, makes Joanna smile and laugh.

It's the most alive Sam's seen him since they were boys, and it hurts that it's _now_.

--

By month eleven, Sam's frantic. Dean's as ready as he's ever been, and that pisses Sam off. "You happy to leave me?" he demands one night, halfway through, slamming Dean against a shoddy hotel wall. "You just rarin' to go?"

"Sammy…" Dean says softly, eyes sad. At peace. He lets his head fall gently forward, resting on Sam. "It's alright, Sammy."

"No, it's not," Sam replies, so brokenly it makes Dean's heart clench.

And there is nothing else to say.

--

The twelfth month, they just stop. Hole up right in the middle of the country, away from everything and everybody, and just… are.

Dean spends a lot of time outside, just walking in the sunlight. He sits on the hood of his Impala and speaks, to himself, to her, to the air. Sam listens, soaking in everything about his brother. Committing it to a memory that most likely won't matter—he'll die with Dean.

With fourteen days left, Dean makes Sam swear that he'll live. "Sammy," he says(Sam's always Sammy anymore, and finds he doesn't mind at all), "don't you kill yourself, after." He's solemn as oak, unbended steel, and Sam looks away. "I need to know that you won't," Dean asks, closest to begging since Sam died in his arms. "Please, Sammy."

"You made me a promise once, Dean," Sam tells him, running his hand along the Impala's smooth edge. "That you'd never, ever leave."

Dean almost smiles. "I was seven, dude."

Sam meets his eyes. "I know."

--

It rains the final day. They leave the cabin and drive east, towards the dawning sun. Sam says everything that pops into his head, determined to drown the silence.

They listen to Dean's favorite music at full volume, and Dean sings along. Sam just watches.

He hasn't decided yet what he'll do.

--

Dean wants to go alone.

Sam says, "Fuck that."

--

She arrives with a pack of snarling dogs, clothed in a petite and dark-haired woman. "Dean," she coos, "I see you brought company."

Her crimson eyes look him over and Sam straightens to his full height. "Sammy," she murmurs, circling around him. "Such a delectable treat."

He doesn't flinch, doesn't look away. "I won't let you take him," he tells her.

She laughs. "You don't get a choice, darlin'. He gave me his soul for your life. I kept up my end of the deal." She cocks her stolen head. "Of course, Sam, you have a choice here."

Dean cuts in, "He's not makin' a deal with you."

"But I'm sure he feels left out," she purrs, reaching up to touch Sam's face. "The only Winchester who hasn't sold hisself yet." Her smile is cold and vicious. "What d'ya say, Sammy? Wanna make a deal?"

He has considered it, over the last months, thought about it, written out every twist and turn of phrase he could think of. He could get years, years of him and Dean and the road.

"Don't," Dean says, that same tone from the cabin, that kept Sam from shooting their father and keeping all this from coming to pass.

Dean never asks for things for himself. And he always gives.

"I'll let you live," Sam tells the crossroad's bitch. "If you let him go."

She laughs.

--

The sun rises. Sam stares at the horizon, sitting on the hood of Dean's Impala. Dean's charm is around his neck and he's got Dean's favorite gun in his grip.

_Sammy, don't you kill yourself, after. _

"You swore to never, ever leave me," Sam whispers, reaching up to grasp the charm, desperately. "You _swore_." He closes his eyes, the cool metal of the gun biting into his skin.

Dean's gone.

Sam pushes off the hood and slips into the driver's seat. He rests his head on the steering for a long, aching moment before starting Dean's Impala.

Dean's gone.

_Sammy, don't you kill yourself, after. _

Dean never asked anything for himself. But he used up some of his last breath to ask Sam for this—so Sam will give it to him.

"See you, Dean," he whispers, laying down the gun.


	17. song about the heartland

**Title**: song about the heartland

**Disclaimer**: not my characters. just for fun. Title from "Heartland" by George Strait.  
**Warnings**: AU for "Born Under A Bad Sign"  
**Pairings**: none  
**Rating**: R, just for fun  
**Wordcount**: 1515

**Point of view**: third

* * *

_when he remembers to pray, it's for forgiveness he'll never receive_

o0o

Nine months after, he dreams of blonde hair and fire. He hears her scream in his head, her pleas for everything to stop, and he tries, God how he **tries**, but nothing listens to his demands.

In the forefront of his mind, It laughs.

o0o

Bobby doesn't understand and Dean doesn't explain. Can't. There aren't words fitting, and words were never his strong-suit, anyway. He just goes about his life, rising with the sun and staying up until he can't move anymore.

o0o

It talks to him, sometimes. Whispers, murmurs, says sweet nothings drenched with twisted desire and hope. Tells him it's too late to do anything else, so he might as well give in.

But he clings to memories and a promise he knew it killed his brother to make, and he turns away in the furthest reaches of his mind, pulling close the one bright spot he ever had.

**_He won't, you know,_** It coos. **_He never could._**

But Sam ignores It with the blind determination his father often lamented and just tells himself that Dean **will**.

o0o

Bobby quits telling Dean about the killings. He just stocks up on ammunition and salt, researches exorcisms and rituals he's had memorized for decades, and prays even though he doesn't believe. He just watches, waiting—Dean is John's son. He'll come to one day, and he'll want… something. To finish it. He is John's son, the one who followed John without question, without fail. Some part of that **must** still be in him, **somewhere**.

But all he can do until then, until Dean wakes up and decides it's time to hunt his brother and follow John's last order, is watch the boy, keep him whole and healthy, and listen to pleas he whispers as he sleeps.

o0o

It killed Jo with his hands, and Gordon and Ellen and Ash and nameless faces at the Roadhouse. It left a swathe of destruction from the Atlantic to the Pacific, from Canada to Mexico, from Washington to Florida and back again.

Hundreds of hunters came after It with weapons and spells and endless hate. With his hands, with his body, with his 'gifts' It killed them all, and then visited their families and their hometowns and showed Its displeasure.

**_Father formed you,_** It told him, that first night after Jo, when Dean lowered the gun and It tore out Jo's throat with a laugh, **_Father fashioned you, Sammy. With meticulous care and fathomless patience, He wove you as His heir. And only two beings have the ability of ending you. _**

He didn't react, didn't respond, pretended he didn't hear It, but It still continued on.

**_Can you guess who they are, sweetheart? C'mon—just one? _**It chuckled and he curled in further on himself. **_My father—and after all the efforts He put into you, I highly doubt He ever will—and… _**

He knew the name before It murmured the word.

**_Dean_**.

He sinks deeper into himself with every passing day, no longer even attempting to wrest back control of his body. All he does is beg God and Satan and Fate and Destiny and every deity he can remember for Dean to finally come end it all.

And It just keeps cackling, **_He never will._**

o0o

A year and then another. The Feds and the hunters slowly give up the chase, realizing that Sam is beyond their reach. Untouchable.

The massacres still happen and the country trembles.

Bobby watches the one man who could end it all watch the sunrise and wonders if any of John's boy is left of him at all.

o0o

Words have never been Dean's strong-suit.

_Save him, Dean. Or kill him. _

Save him. Kill him.

Dean can't do either so he does nothing at all.

o0o

**_You see, Sammy_**, It purrs, twisting a little boy's neck and laughing with his voice, **_you're thinking, Dean'll come and everything will be right as rain, right?_** It uses his hands to toss the boy's body aside and moves toward the boy's mother. **_Wrong, sweetheart. So fucking wrong it's more damned hysterical than that flood was. There is no salvation, not for you. Never has been, never will be—you, Sam, were damned from the moment John and Mary conceived you. _**

He locks himself deep in memory, wraps himself in the warmth of his brother protecting him from everything, and ignores the feel of It using his body as a weapon against the world.

And all the while he begs for Dean to kill him and have everything be **over**.

o0o

Five years to the day Jo died, Bobby wakes to Dean gone. Everything of Dean's but the Impala is still there, though, so Bobby knows Dean hasn't gone hunting.

Bobby stares at the sky for a minute, then down the road, and wonders what the fucking hell he can do now, because he's one of the few left and the thing in Sam's body'll just keep coming, no matter what is used as a weapon.

And then he prays some more.

o0o

**_He's coming,_** It says. **_Bye, Sammy. Meet ya on the frontlines._**

And for the first time in longer than he cares to remember, his body listens to **him** and he's the solitary presence in his head.

o0o

Words are not what Dean's good at, not when it matters. Not to Sammy and—when Dad was alive—not to Dad. He's better with looks or touches, and even his silence is usually better than when he speaks.

He shoots across the country like an arrow, the Impala never going less than 75mph. Everyone spent so long looking for the thing in Sam's body any time it fell off the map, but Dean always knew where it was.

_Save him, Dean. Or kill him. _

Dad's final order and Dean let thousands die because he couldn't do it.

He pushes his Impala over 100 and wonders what he thinks changed. It's been half a decade. Why now?

o0o

Sam's asleep when Dean picks the lock and slowly opens the door. It's the first real sleep he's gotten in just a little over five years. He slowly rises to consciousness when he feels another presence in the room, but he's been running on empty for so long, he sinks deeper into the dark.

Dean just watches him for a moment, wondering if it's his brother or something else in control. He thinks of Dad, of Jo and Ellen, of everyone dead by his brother's hand—except, it wasn't his brother at all.

_Save him, Dean. Or kill him. _

With trembling fingers, Dean reaches out to touch Sam's face. Five years of refusing to do what had to be done, of watching the news and reading the paper, of Bobby's silent disapproval and inability to understand, of knowing that he and he alone could end everything—and Sam sighs, shifts, moves into the touch. Dean bows his head, weighs what he knows and what he feels, measures everything that's been…

He's put it off for five years now, ever since the thing in Sam's body tore out Jo's throat.

_Save him, Dean. Or kill him. _

Dean can't save him. He's already failed there. He knows it, deep in his soul—knows it and can't do a thing to change it.

Because he can't kill Sam.

o0o

In the dream, It's talking again, murmuring about destiny and blood and how nothing can ever be fully escaped.

Its laughter spirals around the cavern he's in and no matter where he turns, he can't ignore the voice, can't block it out, can't pretend it isn't there.

**_Listen to me, Sammy. I've opened the door and you've got nowhere else to go. But you won't be alone, Sam. Father isn't that cruel, especially not to you. You're His special one, His obsession, what He's spent lifetimes on. _**

Sam howls, trying to make It shut up, but It just keeps on talking.

**_Destiny, little brother. Blood of our blood. I've given you a taste, over the past few years. You won't be able to walk away. _**

It's a shadow that swoops over him, smoke that reaches out to caress his face. **_And Dean, lovely being that he is, won't let you walk alone. _**

o0o

Sam wakes with a sob and a curse, and isn't surprised that Dean's leaning against the wall.

"Tell me it was a nightmare," Sam begs, but Dean's bearing tells him it wasn't.

For a moment, Dean's silent. But then he says, "We gotta go. Bobby's probably told 'em I left."

Sam almost breaks down in hysterical laughter, because despite everything that's different, nothing's changed. But he focuses on Dean, Dean for the first time in five years, and he knows he has to get up, has to move, has to surrender to the inevitable fate he could never have outrun, not really.

"I begged you to kill me," he whispers and Dean nods.

"I never could," Dean answers. "Now, move."

o0o

_when he remembers to hope, it's fleeting and faulty, and for a moment he forgets what he's come to be _


	18. Edge of the Knife

**Title**: Edge of the Knife

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: AU for "The Benders"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: R

**Wordcount**: 1020

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Once upon a time, Sam would have sworn he'd never kill a child. Never snap a little girl's neck like a twig, righteous fury and horrific pain overwhelming him.

But once upon a time is a while ago and things change.

o0o

Sam could return to Stanford. Could pick up the pieces of that life easily. He still remembers all the lies, the nuances of normal Sam Winchester. His friends will welcome him back with open arms and bright smiles.

But he is not that Sam Winchester anymore. He was _never_ that Sam Winchester, not really.

That Sam Winchester had a shitty childhood, but he never hunted ghosts. That Sam Winchester had an older brother he never mentioned and a father he never thought about. That Sam Winchester fell out of trees and was in a terrible car wreck as a child. That Sam Winchester loved Jessica Moore and wanted to marry her, to grow old with her, to die in her arms.

And now Sam Winchester has nothing left but his father's crusade and his brother's car.

o0o

Sam never wanted to hunt. Even as a boy, he wanted other things, more. Normalcy, though he never truly knew what that meant.

His father couldn't understand. John'd had normal; it did not end well. So now he sought vengeance for the love of his life, for the woman who made everything worthwhile.

And Dean—Dean followed his father. Did what he said, when he said, and Sam never did understand why.

If Sam could talk to Dean, he'd ask and _really_ listen to Dean's answer.

After everything, Sam doesn't know why Dean can't haunt him.

o0o

Sam will never ever forgive himself. He will never forget what his stupidity cost him.

Dean would never have gone near that house. Never have gotten caught, tortured.

Never have gotten stabbed by that devil-spawned bitch.

If Sam hadn't fucked up, Dean would not have died.

o0o

Jarrod and Lee were locked in the cage. The father was pinned by Kathleen. Sam hurried to the house to find Dean.

He found Dean's body and a laughing child, a girl who couldn't be more than thirteen.

She told him, while he stood frozen with horror, that the man had such pretty eyes.

Distantly, Sam heard himself ask, "Then why did you stab them?"

And the little girl said, "If they'da hunted him, he'da won."

o0o

Sam regrets many things in his life. Mistakes he made, things he said, things he never got the chance to say.

He does not regret killing Jarrod. He does not regret killing Lee. He does not regret knocking Kathleen unconscious when she protested and would have fought him. He does not regret killing the father.

Most of all, he does not regret killing Missy.

o0o

They had wanted to hunt him. To kill him, mutilate his body, and probably eat his flesh. They were sick, twisted; from birth, they never had a chance.

They were what their father made them, fashioned and molded by his sickness.

They should never have picked Sam. He wasn't like the rest of their prey; from six months old, he'd also been trained in the hunt.

He was better than they ever could be and he played the game by different rules.

From the moment Sam escaped the cage, they'd lost.

From the instant he found Dean, they never had a chance.

o0o

Sam had read books about whether or not people were what their parents made them.

Even at Stanford, he knew he was. Every move he made, every step he took, John Winchester stood in the shadows. And Dean stood beside him.

Sam is what his father made him. A hunter, a predator, a killer. Blood on his hands and blood in his eyes.

Dean had always been the better, the one who embraced John's teaching, his crusade.

And he died, hands and ankles tied, killed by a child.

A girl.

A little thirteen-year-old girl, a product of her raising.

Sam had no sympathy. Sam did not care her reasoning or her age.

Sam snapped her neck.

Jarrod and Lee died minutes later.

Sam saved the father for last.

o0o

"You snuck up behind while he was fighting the others, didn't you?" Sam asked.

The father did not answer.

"You cheated, took him by surprise," Sam continued. "Must have hit him with something, because no way _you_ could take him down."

The father still didn't respond. He whimpered and shuddered and followed Sam's pacing with terrified eyes.

"Nothing to say?" Sam mocked, smirking at the tears that ran down Pa Benders face. "Hard to talk with no tongue, huh?" Sam stepped forward, a dirty knife held loosely in his hand. "What should I take next? Your dick, maybe? Ears? Hands and feet—what?"

He knelt before the patriarch of the hunters and trailed the edge of the knife along his jaw, whispering, "Look at you. Your sons are dead, and your daughter. You're all that's left. There will be no hunts, ever again."

Pa Bender closed his eyes and Sam laughed.

"Are you what your father made you?" He stood and glance at the knife, running his fingers along the blade. "I am," he said quietly and smirked when the final Bender opened his eyes.

o0o

It was never Sam's crusade. He never wanted to hunt.

Now he could walk away, pick up the pieces, love Jessica's memory, and live for her.

It would be so easy.

No one could blame him.

o0o

But instead he sends Dean to Mom with dry eyes and waits till all the ashes blow away.

Instead he drives Dean's car and listens to Dean's music and wears Dean's necklace and puts Dean's ring in the trunk with Dad's journal.

It was never Sam's crusade. Mom was an abstract and Jessica's death fresh, but now time has tempered the wound.

Sam and Dean were formed as weapons against the darkness. They were forged in fire with blood staining them far too young.

It was not Sam's crusade.

And he's never wished for a ghost to haunt him until Dean leaves him alone.


	19. cut just like a knife

**Title**: cut just like a knife

**Fandom**: "Supernatural"

**Disclaimer**: not my characters. just for fun. Title from Cyndi Thomson's "What I Really Meant To Say."

**Warnings**: spoilers for "Born Under A Bad Sign." And I may have fudged the timeline a bit, sorry.

**Pairings**: technically, none

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 1020

* * *

Between one blink and the next, Sam's body quits responding to him. He's got the take-out bag of burgers in one hand, two bottles of water in the other, and he's half a block from the motel room where Dean's waiting. He goes to take another step and his foot doesn't move. He tries to inhale and his respiratory system fails. He can hear a rushing sound, like a river—and then nothing but demented laughter.

_Hello, Sammy,_ a sexless voice says. _Miss me? _

He can't place it, has no idea who the speaker is. He tries to reply but nothing's working, and then his hands drop the food and one of the bottles in the closest trash can and his feet are taking him away from the motel, away from Dean, and Sam realizes he's been possessed.

_Oh, **fuck**,_ he thinks, and the demon laughs again.

o0o

By the time he's out of the city limits, Sam's figured out who the demon is. _I thought we **killed** you,_ he hisses, watching his hands break into a car and hotwire it. It's some old Bug, god-awful, something he'd never choose on his own. He's surprised he even fits in it. For half a heartbeat, he thinks of Ava.  
_  
You thought wrong, Sammy_, Meg chortles. _I'm stronger than that, stronger than you, way stronger than big brother. _

_Why are you back?_ he asks, striving in vain to make his body do **anything**. _Part of the plan?_

_No_, she dismisses. _Fuck the plan. I just want to punish you. And that bastard brother of yours. _

Sam takes satisfaction in saying, _We really pissed you off, huh? Beaten by two **humans**._

But Meg swats at him with something and suddenly he can't see out of his eyes or feel anything on his skin, can't smell or hear, but then her voice echoes around the black void he's in, laughing,

o0o

The next time Sam knows anything, he's kicking the crap out of some guy he's never seen before in his life. And then he's holding a knife in one hand and the guy's head in the other, and the blade tears through skin like it's not even there, and Sam's howling and howling, and Meg hisses, _Get_ _**that** blood off your hands, Sammy-boy. _

And then nothing.

o0o

When he's aware again, it's daylight and Meg is smoking. She lets him taste, and it's bitter ashes on his tongue. He wants to choke, to gag, to claw into his skin and tissue, tear her out of him.

But nothing listens to him. He's shrieking himself hoarse—if he fucking **had** a fucking **voice**—in some deep back corner of his mind and everything, every appendage, every particle of every tissue is ignoring **him**.

This is **his** body but she's made it **hers**.

After he stops screaming, he realizes he can hear her prattling on to some girl with his voice—and the girl can't be more than sixteen, if that, and Sam is horrified, but it's distant—like he's watching on TV, maybe.

_No_, he begs in a whisper. _Please, God, **no**._

_God's not here, Sam_, she laughs and kisses the girl's neck with his lips, shoving him back into the darkness. He can't see, can't hear—but she lets him feel. She makes him feel everything.

o0o

And then he hears Dean's voice and he screams for Dean to not come, begs every deity he can remember, but he knows Dean will find a way.

_The two'a ya sent me back to Hell, Sam_, Meg explains. _It kinda sucked. Dad was ripping out Dean's heart for the offense—he's never been very creative. But me? I'm thinking Dean will kill you, if I push him far enough. After all, he thinks I'm dead, right? And Johnny's words are ringing loud in his ears. _

She settles deeper into him, if that's possible, and sighs_. It's never been this satisfying, felt this good. You have a strong body, Sam. I think I'll keep it, after._

He snarls incoherently and tries to expel her with sheer will alone, and the bitch fucking **laughs**.

_It'll destroy him, Sammy. After he pulls that trigger, I'll reveal it all. Can you imagine the light in his eyes dying—oh, it'll be **glorious**._ And she **cackles**.

_Please, stop_, he whispers. _Please, do whatever you want to **me**, but **let Dean go**._

And she uses his voice to laugh, makes his voice say, "Dean's **mine**, Sam."

And she makes him remember that young, tiny, **breakable** girl.

o0o

He stays in the dark until she's knocked Dean unconscious, but then he's shoved to the front.

_Look at him lying there, Sammy_, she murmurs. _Isn't he just the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?_

Dread curls through him, dawning horror, and fear. In his whole life, he's never felt so terrified.

_No_, he says. **_No_**_. I won't let you._

Her laughter is dark, and then she tells him, _Maybe later._

And then she tosses him back into the void.

o0o

He's awake the entire time Meg's tormenting Jo. He stays silent, waiting for Meg to drop her defenses, but she never does.

And it isn't until Meg is using every ounce of his size that Sam realizes he's spent most of the last eight years trying to appear smaller.

Because Jo is tiny in his grip, fragile, and Meg is going to die if the last thing Sam ever does is kill her evil, demonic ass.

For one absolutely terrifying second, Sam thinks Meg might use his body to rape Jo. It's sweet relief he feels when she doesn't.

And then Dean's there, and Meg shoves Sam away, locks him deep down in his mind, and no matter how hard he fights, how loud he screams, he can't find the way out.

o0o

But then he hears a gunshot and a splash and Meg's howl of triumph. And he sees the empty dock, and Meg's laughing and cackling, and she says, _This is so much better._

And Sam doesn't even have the solace of closing his eyes.


	20. Sins Writ In Blood

**Title**: Sins Writ In Blood

**Disclaimer**: Only the priest is mine. Just for fun.

**Warnings**: AU for "The Benders"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: R

**Wordcount**: 1480

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

_Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I killed three men yesterday..._

**I**

The first was easy, easier than he thought. A quick twist of the neck, a snap, and a large body falling like timber to the floor. The first was quick, relatively painless, and not satisfying at all.

The first was only just that: the first.

o0o

_I have never been to confession before._

**II**

The second was fun. The second involved an axe and a knife, a blade honed sharp enough to cut bone. The second was lingering, a death that was stretched out over hours, and still not long enough.

_You killed my brother, _he whispered in the dying man's ear, and the soon-to-be-corpse whimpered. _I keep my promises._

_Please, _the fucking murderer gasped out, _end it._

And he laughed, oh how he laughed, bitter and pained, and the edge of madness loomed. _I will. I'll end it when I choose to._

And the bastard's eyes rolled up in his head, unable to take anymore.

o0o

_Father, am I damned? I killed a girl, too, you know._

**III**

For the third, he was no longer an innocent in the art of killing humans. For the third, the one who had pulled the trigger, he used a saw and removed all limbs from the man's quivering body.

It was slow going, bloody, and he relished every minute of it.

_Please, _the man gasped, _please!_

And he laughed again, pulling back the saw and grabbing a spoon. _My brother, you know, _he said conversationally, _he didn't like to think about killing humans. He thought we were better than that, that we'd become what we hunted if we sunk to their level. Me, on the other hand? _He shrugged his shoulders, jamming the spoon down into the man's chest. _I think I could get used to it._

Leaving the spoon in the man's skin, he shoved the arms and legs off the table. _That was the fundamental difference between him and me, _he continued, over the bastard's groans and pleas and begging, gasping cries, _he always saw the good side. He's always been the conscience. Even when he wasn't around, I thought about what he'd want me to do. _He leaned over the limbless, dying, murderering, son of a bitch and hissed, _And guess what, you fuck? You killed him. You killed my conscience._

A whimper sounded deep in the man's throat and he twisted the spoon.

o0o

_Forgive me, Father, for I think I'll kill again._

**IV**

And the little girl, who laughed as the killing bullet was fired, she died last. She died after having been burned with the same poker that had scorched him. She certainly hadn't been attractive to begin with, but she left the world far less so, and he couldn't bring himself to care that he'd killed a child.

He stabbed her in the eye, pushed the blade through to her brain, killing her with almost no time to register pain—except, of course, for the poker, but that didn't really count, did it?

o0o

_What does God—if He even exists—think of me now?_

**V**

And after he'd kept his promise, he went back to the barn, he picked up Sam's body and he brought his little brother to the house. He laid Sam gently on the couch and removed all the body parts and bodies of the killers from the house, just throwing them like dirty laundry on the lawn.

He spared a brief thought for the cop—she was an innocent, just doing her job—but only that. He had more important things to worry about.

He brushed his hand across Sam's face gently and whispered, _I'm so sorry, Sammy. I failed you. _He left the house quickly, bypassing the bodies without a second thought, and inventoried all the cars they'd stocked up. He chose a black Suburban and tried the door—it was open, so he slid in the driver's seat and hotwired it, then drove around to the front. He left it running and slid out; no one was alive on the property but him, so what was there to worry about?

He hurried back into the house, wanting to get Sam as far away as possible. Those pieces of filth didn't deserve to lie in the same vicinity as Sam.

o0o

_What can He think of me? I killed them. I told them I would, and I did—gleefully. With no regret._

**VI**

He knew he couldn't bury Sam—neither of them had ever wanted to lie beneath the dirt, to be worm food, to take up space.

So he drove them back down the highway, far away from the fucked-up pieces of humanity that destroyed them, and selected with care the clearing that would see the end of Sam's physical body.

_I know you're there, _he whispered to the air, setting Sam on fire. _I can feel you._

Tears slowly slid down his cheeks, as he fell to the forest floor, and watched Sam's body burn. The fact that he could feel his brother's spirit standing at his back didn't mean a thing, because Sam—Sam was dead.

He finally lowered his head and cradled it in his hands, keening his pain and misery for the world to hear.

_It'll be alright, Dean, _Sam whispered, kneeling beside him, and together they watched his body return to the earth.

o0o

_I'm not a nice man, Father. So what does your God want to do with me?_

**VII**

He returned to their hotel room silently, abandoning the Suburban down the road. After a shower, he'd go find his Impala and pack, leave, be long gone by the time the bodies were discovered.

Sam tagged along for all of it, but didn't speak again. He watched Dean place all their belongings in bags and put them in the Impala, watched Dean finger his cell, contemplate calling Dad and decide not to.

Dean slid into the driver's seat and gunned it; Sam appeared in the passenger seat and said, _I'm dead, Dean. But I'm not leaving you alone._

Dean smiled sadly in his direction before peeling out of the parking lot.

o0o

_I killed. Happily. What does that make me? It was justice—but I made it hurt._

**VIII**

Dean drove the night through, not stopping for anything. He wasn't hungry, he wasn't thirsty, he wasn't tired.

He got across three states before seeing the church. It was Catholic and he wasn't, but he figured that didn't matter. He needed to talk to someone besides Sam's ghost. A priest was as good as any.

o0o

_I keep my promises, Father. They didn't listen._

**IX**

Dean silently walked into the church, slipped into the confessional, and started talking. He didn't want forgiveness, not really, because he didn't regret it. And—he felt more satisfaction from the deaths of those four sick fucks than he did for any non-human monster he'd ever killed.

And if that made him sicker than them—so be it. Sometimes evil came in human form, and it all needed to be eradicated.

o0o

_They were warned, Father. And they didn't heed it._

**X**

Dean slipped out of the confessional and out the church, back into his car, and was gone before the priest knew it. The poor man hadn't a clue what to do, but it honestly didn't matter.

Dean was out of the state before sundown, heading to California, looking for evil along the way to kill.

If Dad was still there—he had explaining to do.

Sam's ghost rode shotgun, and they reminisced; Dean asked if Sam minded what he'd done in his name, and Sam shook his head.

_They deserved it, Dean. Sometimes—sometimes someone is so broken inside, they can't be fixed. They just need to be ended. And maybe... maybe this was your destiny all along. You're still a hunter—just a different type._

_Like them? _Dean asked, almost dreading the answer.

_No. _The reply was quick, vehement. _Not like them at all. You're better, and you'll only hunt those who have earned it, not for fun. You're a good man, Dean._

Dean smiled to himself, and the words he'd told the priest echoed between them: _I'm not a nice man, Father. So what does your God want to do with me?_

o0o

_Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I killed three men and a little girl yesterday. And I know I'll kill again._


	21. west of the wayward wind

**Title**: west of the wayward wind

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: AU after "No Rest for the Wicked"

**Pairings**: none  
**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 1040

**Point** **of** **view**: third  
**Notes**: written for spnsummergen  
**Prompt**: Dean's soul somehow gets loose and he has to share Sam's brain for a while.

* * *

Dean's been gone for twenty-two weeks when Sam gets him back. His body is ashes, with only his Impala, his leather jacket, his golden amulet, and his silver ring remaining. Sam never takes either of the pieces of jewelry off.

Dean's been gone for twenty-two weeks. Twenty-two weeks of silence, of despair and regret, of hatred and anger. Bobby took Sam back to his place for awhile, but Sam couldn't stay there—too many memories of Dean. Ellen offered the newly-constructed Roadhouse, but Sam said no, climbed into the Impala wearing Dean's jacket, amulet, and ring, and took off for the sunset.

Dean's been gone for twenty-two weeks and Sam hasn't spoken for fifteen. Dean's been gone for twenty-two weeks and Sam's just driving, wasting gas and time, not knowing what he's looking for, but sure he'll know it when he finds it.

Dean's been gone for twenty-two weeks when demon-smoke pours into Sam and calls him _Sammy_. Calls him _Bitch_. Tells him _You better've been takin' care of my car, dude, or I'll kick your ass_.

Dean. Dean's back and Sam cries.

o0o

It's weird how little changes after Dean comes back. He rarely takes over Sam's body, and only when he thinks Sam's in danger. Sam understands and forgives him each time.

They talk about everything, like they used to going from one nameless town to another. Sam tells Dean anything he can think of, speaking in the sanctuary of his mind to the only person left in the world he cares about.

Dean listens. Does the same. But he never mentions Hell. Never says a thing about his time there.

o0o

Sam notices that his mind wanders more, thoughts floating in and out like clouds on a stormy day, flowing smooth as water. He doesn't care, figures it's a small price to pay for Dean safe with him and not in Hell.

But Dean worries, Sam knows that. Dean's died and come back, and he still worries about his little brother.  
o0o

A hunt finds them by accident, a year after Dean comes back. A demon-possessed man is going on a killing spree, leaving bodies across half a dozen states. Sam doesn't want to take the case; it strikes too close to home. But Dean insists.

He even takes over Sam's body to get them there.

Sam doesn't see daylight until the hunt is through, the demon back in Hell and the man dead.

He doesn't speak to Dean for three months.

o0o

_I'm not who I was, Sammy,_ Dean tells him, over and over. Sam finally believes him. _The man you remember… I'm not him. I can't be him, not ever again. And I'm sorry. I am. I wish…_ Dean pauses, pulling back into the far recesses of Sam's mind. _I wish I could be him. Be better than he was, because that's what you deserve._ A light touch against Sam, and then, _I'll go, if that's what you want._

"No!" Sam shouts, shock finally giving him voice. "Don't leave me again."

It's forgiveness and understanding, and Sam feels Dean's relief.

o0o

Another year passes. They share his body equitably, like they used to share the Impala and hotel rooms and the open road. There are no secrets, and neither of them wishes to keep any.

But Dean's worry is still there, as Sam fades in and out, as the body seems to become more and more Dean's.

_Sammy,_ he says one day. _Something's wrong. I think I've stayed too long._

Sam sighs, not really hearing him, lost in the mist of his mind again. He remembers their youth, and those too-few years after Jessica. He remembers dying, being brought back, and then left alone one short year later.

Dean recedes, pushing Sam forward at the same time. _Sam!_ he yells, _listen to me! Wake up! This is your body, not mine. Your life._

Sam shudders, pulling back into himself, and opens his eyes.

o0o

For a month, Sam has full control. Dean stays deep in the recesses; Sam only knows he's there because of infrequent brushes against his mind.

Dean never responds to his questions or comments; it's almost like those too-long twenty-two weeks he was completely alone, and he hates it.

Sam can't figure out what's bothering Dean. Everything is just fine—they're together and healthy and _together_ and alive. Nothing can be wrong.

o0o

Sam steps in front of a bus one blustery November day, determined to shake Dean out of hiding.

It works.

It also pisses Dean off and Sam doesn't get control of his body again until May.

o0o

Finally, Dean just stops. Lays Sam's body down in the grass somewhere in Wisconsin and lets Sam out. Says, _Sammy, we have to talk_. Sam stares at the sky and waits, knowing that he won't like whatever is coming and that it can't be good.

Dean begins hesitantly, with _This isn't healthy, Sam. I shouldn't… this isn't right, me stealing your body. Your life._

"But I want you here," Sam says.

_I want to be here,_ Dean assures him. _I do. But not if it hurts you._

"It doesn't hurt me! You were in _Hell_ because of me, and now you're back, and I won't lose you again, Dean!"

Dean is barely a presence in the back of his mind, now, receding more by the second, and Sam tries to grab him, hold him, keep him there, because he can't be alone, can't _not_ have Dean, not again, never again.

"Dean!" he screams, jackknifing up, reaching with everything he has, all the considerable will and strength, what remains of Azazel's taint.

He feels Dean pause, just a bare hint of his brother's presence left. _Sam_, is all he says.

"Please, Dean," Sam begs. "Don't go."

Sam really, truly misses being able to look into Dean's eyes, knowing what he's thinking. Now there's just a silence as Dean contemplates leaving forever.

_Sleep, Sammy,_ Dean murmurs. _You need your rest. We'll talk more in the morning, alright?_

"You'll be here?" Sam asks, stretching out on the grass.

Dean doesn't answer, just curls up inside Sam's soul and whispers, _Sleep, lil'brother._

o0o

Sam wakes alone. He is the only occupant of his body. He wakes alone and screams at the sky and thinks _Dean_.


	22. My body aches to breathe your breath

**Title**: My body aches to breathe your breath

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Sarah McLachlan.

**Warnings**: AU for 4.7

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 1000 on the dot

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

The town burned first, lit up by angelic fire. There wasn't time for anyone to realize what was happening or to scream; Castiel and Uriel were merciful.

Samhain was not Raised. The Seal did not break. Over a thousand souls were sent to meet their Maker, and Heaven emerged victorious in another battle.

The town burned first, wiped off the map on Halloween night.

Dean knelt at the edge of the crater, silent and still. Castiel stood at his right, Uriel just behind them. Dean knelt, hands splayed in the dirt, watching the smoke rise into the sky. His eyes were dry.

He was cold. So cold. He couldn't feel anything but the cold.

Castiel placed a hand on his shoulder; Dean flinched away, his only movement since Castiel carried him from Sam's side. _Dean_, the so-called angel murmured. _We must leave now._

Castiel had carried him twice, now. Once out of Hell and once away from Sam. Castiel, Dean decided, there in the dust, would never carry him anywhere again.

He remembered how it felt, in Cold Oak, Sam's body in his arms and Sam's blood coating his hands. He remembered the emptiness. He remembered the cold. He remembered, and he felt that way now, the crater a gaping wound in the Earth, and Sam's absence a gaping wound in his soul.

Sam was gone. Erased from existence, not like the others. Uriel had taken glee in telling Dean that, before Castiel shut him up. Uriel had been gleeful, like a little bully boy, not like an ancient and powerful angel at all.

Kneeling at the crater's edge, inhaling smoke, Dean hated him. Kneeling at the crater's edge, Sam's absence shrieking, Dean wanted him _dead_.

The town burned first, lit up by angelic fire. An angel burned second, lit from the inside by one soul's rage and hatred.

Uriel had no time to scream, but Castiel did. Castiel begged Dean to stop, pled and cried _This is not the way! Dean! You are pure—_

Dean cut him off with a thought. Castiel burned third.

Dean knelt in the dirt, his fingers trailing through dust, smoke blocking the horizon. He said nothing. He felt nothing but a benumbed cold.

He thought, maybe, he should feel regretful. Ask forgiveness of God, for killing two of his soldiers. After all, they were just. Righteous.

A demon was kept from Rising. Hell was kept from Earth.

Sam was gone. Dean died for him. Dean lived for him. Sam was gone, killed by two angels and their perfect, unquestioned God.

Dean decided, there in the dirt, that he hated God.

Inside him, at the edge of that crater, the second place Sam died, something unfurled. Something dark, not created but instead nurtured in Hell, stirred.

Dean stared unseeing, wondering what to do now. Sam was gone. Dean couldn't follow him into oblivion. He'd just end up right back in Hell, and Sam wouldn't be there. Sam wasn't anywhere.

Uriel's voice was full of power and conviction when he told Dean that.

The town burned first, and then two angels, and Sam was gone. Really, truly, completely _gone_, nowhere to be found ever again.

The town burned first, with Sam trapped inside its borders. The town burned first, and Dean wished with all his power he could turn back time, keep it from happening, save Sammy like he always had.

But for all his newfound Hell-powers, time-travel wasn't one of them.

Dean took a deep breath and slowly rose to his feet. Once fully upright, he rolled his shoulders and back, never taking his gaze from where the town had once been.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, lightning cracking through the sky. Dean breathed, counting his heartbeats.

Dying would serve no purpose. It wouldn't bring Sam back.

The darkness coiled through his blood. It whispered of what they could do, how to avenge Sammy. How to make God _pay_.

Dean listened. Stood at the edge of the crater, eyes on the center, where Sam had been, and listened to the darkness murmur with his own voice.

Lightning struck the ground next to him, singeing his shirt. Dean didn't flinch. Another bolt hit his other side, and a third right in front of him. Dean didn't make a sound, but he raised his eyes to the sky.

The darkness chuckled smoothly, and kept on talking.

Dean hated all existence in that moment, as the cold melted away, replaced with shearing pain and crescendoing rage. The darkness purred, reaching out to soothe him. _Wait, wait, _it whispered. _Wait, wait. Not yet. _

Dean stared at the gray clouds, at the rain pouring down in the distance, and he wanted the world to die. What meaning did life have, without Sammy?

The darkness pulled away in shock. _Wait, wait!_ it shouted, but he shoved it back into that small corner it'd been in since November.

The darkness wanted to wait, to build power slowly, to destroy everything from the inside out, over a long period of time.

Sam was gone, and if Dean couldn't go to him or bring him back, then he'd just as soon make it so no one else had the people they loved.

He spared a single thought for Haley and her brothers, Lucas and Andrea, Michael and Joanna and Asher, Sarah, Ben and Lisa, and everyone else he and Sammy had saved. They'd die.

But _they_ would go to Heaven, unlike Sammy, who was _gone_.

_Do not_, a voice said, deeper than deep, filling the air. _My son, do not do what you think of doing._

Dean did not reply, looking back at the crater.

_I gave you free will_, the voice continued. _Do not_.

Dean's hands trembled. His chest ached. Water built up behind his eyes and slipped down his face.

_Do not do this. For all the pain, is not the pleasure worth it?_

He threw back his head to glare at the heavens.

Dean screamed.

And the sky came tumbling down.


	23. untitled

**Title**: untitled

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: AU; character death; implied pedophilia; implied underaged whoring

**Pairings**: John/Mary, Sam/Jessica

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 1574

**Point of view**: third

* * *

**Retreat**

Her smile lit up when she saw him and he knew it was too late to run.

**Scar**

Sometimes, as Dean comes out the shower with just a towel on, it catches his eye and the memories well up; he wants to apologize all over again, but Dean quit hearing him a long time ago.

**Perfume**

John searched the country for the scent, but it died with Mary.

**Vampire**

Luther was right, Kate thought, vengeance _is_ useless if you're dead, and the hunter's machete took her head.

**Music**

Dean's called it music for years, but Sam never thought of it as anything but noise until now—Dean's face is young again, singing along; the years have been erased, if only for a moment, and at the pure joy Sam can't help but smile.

**Rainbow**

"Don't you know about the pot of gold, Sammy?"

**Reflection**

Sometimes, Dean looks at Sam and all he sees is the only people he's ever cared about backs as they walk away.

**Puppies**

Mary had always wanted a golden retriever puppy, and John thinks that probably would have been easier as Dean's wails fill the house.

**Blonde**

She wasn't his type—he'd never gone for the flaxen-haired goddess, always the lithe brunette caught his eye… but this 'Mary' Greg kept talking about intrigued him.

**Forgiveness**

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned… I… I killed a man, and I don't regret."

**Panther**

"See that, Sammy, that's a panther, and they're perfect."

**Breakdown**

Three weeks after Sammy left, Dean went into a bar and started a fight with a dozen bikers; after it was over, five men were critically wounded, three had broken bones, one was passed out, and Dean still had the look in his eyes, the look that said, "I'm just getting started."

**Amulet**

Dean opened the box and stared at the golden charm, then up at his father, his eyes asking, "Are you sure?"

**Quilt**

Mary's mother had sewed all the patches together and they tucked Dean in with it every night.

**Ghost**

Sam sometimes still woke up and imagined Dean in the bed next to his, even when there wasn't a bed to be seen.

**Water**

The first bath Sammy had after couldn't get the stench of fire off him.

**Jubilation**

"Good job, Sammy—top of the class… I'm so proud of you," Dean said Sam's junior year, while Dad was away on a hunt.

**Cut**

Sometimes, when Dean sharpens the knives, it's so easy to let one slip onto his skin.

**Sunlight**

Sam stands in the warmth of the sun for hours after they kill Azazel—his bones are still freezing and Dean never resumes breathing.

**Vengeance**

"I'm not gonna let you kill yourself to kill Azazel, Sammy—do you understand?"

**Experience**

Dean nodded to the man and slipped outside—Dad was in New York, hunting again, and Sammy would have food tonight… and it didn't matter what he had to give up so long as Sammy was fine.

**Mirror**

Sam doesn't look in the mirror anymore; all he'd see is Dean standing beside him, but Dean isn't there, and never will be again.

**Emotion**

Anger colors his voice but love fills his eyes, and Sam knows he's been forgiven.

**Utopia**

John kneels in the church and prays for his soul, but he knows he won't make it Heaven.

**Hazel**

Dean has Mary's eyes and sometimes John can't look at him because his dead lover is staring back.

**Faith**

Dean doesn't believe in God, but he does believe something is up there, watching out for Sammy—he just prays it keeps on looking out for his brother after he's dead.

**Leather**

The coat is so essentially _Dean_ that Sam crawls into bed and hugs it to him, breathing in his brother's scent and praying when he wakes everything will be fine again.

**Seduction**

_No way he's human, _she thinks, watching him pad around the room like a big cat, all muscles and grace, _he's just too fucking beautiful._

**Bright**

Dean shields his eyes with his hand because the sun shines so brightly and laughs as Sam runs around the field; finally, for a moment, they can be boys again.

**Fire**

Growing up, Sam never really understood the aversion his brother had for fire—now, he does.

**Home**

"C'mon, Sam, let's go hom—back to the apartment."

**Coil**

Dean twists, bringing up the gun, and yells, "Down, Sam!" waiting until Sam's clear before unloading the clip.

**Rain**

_It is fitting, _he decides, kneeling before the stone, _that the sky mourns for you._

**Glass**

Dean doesn't look at the mirror as he puts his fist through it.

**Roses**

Sam brought Jess roses on their first date and she took them with a smile; it wasn't till their fifth she told him they were cliché.

**Fear**

Sam doesn't understand how _Dean_ can be afraid of anything, and it isn't until much later—too late—he realizes Dean always equated flying with dying and leaving Sam alone.

**Righteous**

"Stop this, the both of you—neither of you is right, okay, _neither_ of you, and I'm fucking tired of being in the middle!"

**Ocean**

The first time Dean heard the roar of the ocean, he fell in love; later, he realized he loved his car for the same reason.

**Hope**

Hope isn't something he's ever claimed to have in abundance, but holding Dean's corpse, he discovers his supply is all used up.

**Slash**

Sometimes, Sam looks at his stomach, wondering why the slash that marred his mother and Jess isn't there.

**Despair**

It isn't until years down the road, in Dean's car with Dean's coat and Dean's guns and Dean's music blaring—who gives a fuck about migraines?—he realizes the despair has lifted: he's got a purpose again.

**Moonlight**

Everything looks beautiful bathed in moonlight, he thinks, watching her dance with the wind, laughing, but Mary most of all.

**Clouds**

"Not everything has a silver lining to make it better," Dean says, patting Sam's back while he pukes up his guts, "especially hangovers."

**Burn**

Fire burns, Mary's gone, and _hatred_ settles with _revenge_ on his heart.

**Redemption**

Dad can still redeem himself in Sam's eyes, if he tries, but Sam knows Dad'll never apologize to Dean, and he also knows Dean'll never ask for one.

**Shatter**

Sam raised the Colt, eyes lit from inside with the same fire that his father'd had, and didn't notice the guy sneaking up from the side—his brother did, though, and Dean's body shattered as it hit the wall.

**Anger**

Watching Dad and Sam argue—same old one, over and over—he felt anger curling in his belly, anger that would turn to fury and then to rage… but he never took it out them, only on himself when neither bothered to look.

**Steel**

"Even steel breaks," Sam says to the stone, "and you were strongest of all."

**Agony**

After Jessica died, Sam thought he knew about horror and agony, and then after Dad he didn't think it could get worse, but _Dean_… no, he'd never understood true, agonized loss before.

**Hades**

_This is Hell, _Dean thinks, _what sort of demon takes a possessed person to a Britney Spears concert?_

**Mending**

Sam decides the prank war was a good thing—it mended a lot of their unravelings.

**Innocence**

Innocence died in Dean almost before he could remember it, but he held onto Sam's for as long as he could.

**Darkness**

Azazel watched them in the dead of night, the two brothers It had chosen; if It were human, It's teeth would have gleamed in the moonlight.

**Satin**

Jessica's skin felt satin-soft beneath his hands and he couldn't believe he'd found someone as beautiful as her.

**Night**

"Tell me—what is it about monsters and night?" Dean muttered to himself as he dug up the grave.

**Day**

In the sunlight, Sam could almost forget what he'd once been.

**Lie**

It was a lie, every single thing of Azazel's mouth was a lie, but Sam still listened, anyway.

**Trust**

"Trust me, Sammy," Dean said, and because he was _Dean_, Sam did.

**Time**

_Time's running out, _John thinks, and changes his voicemail as he takes off.

**Door**

The door slams behind him, on everything Dean couldn't say.

**Truth**

Dean never lied to Sammy, that was just a rule, but Sammy sometimes lied to Dean.

**Pain**

Sam felt his whole body clench when Dean crumpled onto the ground, and he knew it was a pain that would never leave him.

**Wind**

Sometimes, when the wind blows through the trees, Sam can hear Dean again.

**Blood**

Dean's eyes bled because of a man he killed when he was fourteen; the bastard dared touch Sammy inappropriately, and his little brother never even knew.

**Life**

Sam considered for a brief moment returning to college, living his life for Dean because of everything Dean never got to do, but the open road called him—the siren he knew Dean would have answered to his whole existence—so he stayed on their crusade.

**Silver**

The golden charm failed him, and so did the silver weapons, but Sam's dark green eyes saved him, anyway.

**Destiny**

Maybe it was his destiny all along, but Sam didn't care—he wanted his brother back, and that was that.

**Death**

Some things are final and some aren't, but Sam knows his death is just around the corner and Dean'll greet him when he finally gets home.

* * *


	24. Felis Major

**Title**: Felis Major  
**Fandom**: "Supernatural"  
**Disclaimer**: the boys aren't mine; just for fun.  
**Warnings**: none  
**Pairings**: none. Though, there could be a bit of sub-textual wincest for any dears who swing that way.  
**Rating**: PG13  
**Wordcount**: 4585  
**Point of view**: third  
**Notes**: this started out humorous and mutated. Sorry.  
**More notes**: Also, in Siberian tigers(the largest breed of the largest cat), adult males are about three-and-a-half feet tall and nine-to-twelve feet long. Just for a size reference.  
**Still more notes**: "Felis Major" is incorrect Latin and I know it. I just like the way it sounds. The title should translate to "big cat."

* * *

_Sam. Wake up._

Something soft bats at his face, rests on his cheek.

_Sammy. **Now**. _

He reaches up to push it away. It feels… fragile? But it sounds like Dean. Weird. So he opens his eyes and looks over—

"Dean?" he blurts out dumbly, unable to believe his eyes. On the bed next to him is… "You're…"

_I'm a fuckin' **cat**, Sammy. _

Sam feels laughter bubbling in his throat and Dean—a black panther cub—glares. Then raises a paw and unsheathes a very impressive set of claws. And peels back his lips to reveal a nice pair of fangs.

"Dude," Sam asks, "who'd you piss off?"

Dean buts his head against Sam's side and softly snarls. _Stop laughing, dumbass_. He hooks one of his front paws in Sam's shirt and kneads his claws.

"Sorry," Sam snickers, picking Dean up. "Dude, you're so small." Dean hisses but Sam ignores him, examines him. He gets out of bed still holding his newly felined brother and paces over to the laptop. He googles panthers, just to be sure, and ends up at a zoological site; Dean yowls as Sam checks him over. "You're a panther alright, Dean; a jaguar," Sam finally decides. "Well, fuck."

o0o

Dean uses the bathtub as a litter box and Sam runs out for steak. He buys two big plastic bowls and a bag of catfood. Doubtful Dean'll eat it, but at least the option is there.

His brother the panther cub is curled up in a nest of covers and Sam has never seen anything so adorable. He wishes he had a camera.

His brain has been working overtime, trying to figure out A) how Dean became a panther and B) how Sam can hear his voice. He'll wait till the Dean-cub wakes up to ask why he hadn't become an adult. Sam sets down his burdens, cleans out the bathtub, and then fills one of the bowls up with water. He uses a plastic fork and one of Dean's knives to cut up the steak, placing the chunks in the other bowl. He sets the bowls on the floor, settles on the chair, and watches Dean sleep.

Adorable. Completely adorable. After Dean's back to normal, Sam will never let him live this down.

o0o

It's twenty more minutes before Dean stirs. He stretches in the sinewy way inherent in all cats and leaps off the bed, making immediately for the food.

_What'd you find out?_ Dean asks and Sam shrugs.

"Nothing. I bought you food."

Dean flicks an ear and lashes his tail. _Don't get pissy, Sam. I'm a damned **cat**_.

"You're a jaguar, Dean. A panther cub."

Dean looks over and hisses. _You tryin' to tell me jaguars aren't cats? Thought you were smart. _

Sam rolls his eyes. "Just eat, okay? Once you're full, we'll retrace our steps, try to figure out what you did yesterday."

Dean lashes his tail again but keeps quiet.

Sam researches jaguars some more, then animal transformations. What he finds about the latter is completely unhelpful: takes a lot of power and strong emotions. The jaguar information just says that Dean will be rambunctious, which isn't new.

"Great," Sam mutters and shuts the laptop. Looks up to find Dean gone. "Dean?" he demands, thrusting aside his computer, glancing around. Where can Dean have gone? He doesn't have thumbs, so he can't leave the room. "Dean, damnit." He searches the room a section at a time but there's no hint of the cub. Finally he sinks back onto the bed and slumps down.

He jumps when something hits the bed behind him. _C'mon, Sammy_, Dean says, loping around him and butting his thigh. _Let's go!_

Sam picks him up and growls, "Where the hell _were_ you?"

Dean blinks his large hazel eyes, the only part of him that didn't change. _Hunting you,_ Dean answers, drooping in Sam's grip. _What I'm 'sposed to do, right?_

Sam is suddenly and sharply reminded of young Simba from The Lion King. "Oh, _Christ_," he says, dropping Dean onto his lap. "You're de-aging, Dean."

Dean stretches out across Sam's legs and mutters, _Sleepy_.

Sam scoops him up and cradles him, stands. "Okay, Dean," Sam sighs. "We'll head out after you've napped. Again."

o0o

A few hours pass and finally Dean stirs, yawns. He's still more adorable than anything in the history of ever.

_Sammy?_ Dean asks; he sounds like the older brother Sam saw last night. Gruff. But he looks like a panther cub.

Hell, he _is_ a panther cub. This is so fucking weird. "Yeah, Dean?" he asks, reaching out to rub Dean's ears.

_Can we go outside now, Sammy?_ Dean's voice is still his older brother, but the tone is achingly young.

"Yeah, Dean," Sam answers. "Let's go."

Dean leaps off his lap and springs for the door, dances in front of it. Sam grabs his wallet and keys, slips a gun in the back of his pants.

"Dean," Sam says, kneeling, and Dean bounds over, rears on his hind legs, placing his front paws on Sam's thigh. "You have to promise to listen to me. If I call you, you have to come immediately. Okay? Promise and mean it or you can't go anywhere."

Dean blinks up at him again and Sam thinks about Puss in Boots from the second Shrek movie. Jessica had loved that cat, melted every single time he was onscreen.

_I promise, Sammy_, Dean says. _I'll listen to you._

Sam stands back up and tells Dean, "Let me make sure no one's there." He slips out the door and glances around, then opens it wide enough for Dean to slip through. Dean bounds around like a puppy—a kitten—and Sam keeps his gaze peeled for anything that could be a threat to a panther cub. So far, no one near.

He strides over to the Impala and unlocks he—_it_; the damned car is an _it_—opens the passenger door for Dean, who bounces in and explores shotgun before tossing himself into the back and nosing around. Sam starts the Impala and drives carefully, slowly. He waits for Dean's comment about driving like a grandma but it never comes.

_Are we there yet?_ Dean finally asks, climbing back into the front.

"Almost," Sam answers. "I'm takin' you to the edge of town, just to be extra safe."

Dean flops on his stomach and blinks his moon-sized eyes at Sam. _Why?_

"Because people aren't supposed to keep panthers as pets. Someone could try takin' you away from me."

_But you wouldn't let 'em, right, Sammy? You'll keep me?_ Dean scoots forward and crawls into Sam's lap, unheeding of the steering wheel.

Sam runs his hand along Dean's back, kneads his skin. "You're mine, Dean. No one will _ever_ take you from me."

Dean purrs and stretches out on Sam's thigh, lets his paws dangle over either side. _Are we there yet?_ he asks again, his tail sweeping against Sam.

Sam decides to experiment. He's been wondering if Dean can hear his mind, so he thinks, _Five more minutes. _

_Good,_ Dean says. _Drive_ _faster, Sammy_.

Sam rubs Dean's ears and pulls off the road a bit down the way_. I guess we're far enough from town. But listen to me, Dean. _He turns off the Impala and picks Dean up, meets his eyes. "If I say it's time to go, it's _time_."

_I promise_, Dean swears, stretching forward to lick the tip of Sam's nose, purring again. Sam wonders if that's part of the transformation, since jaguars—real jaguars—can't purr. _Can I go outside now, Sammy? Please? _

Sam opens the door and Dean springs out, runs around. He explores everything and Sam follows, alert for any possible threat, keeping Dean in sight. It seems that Dean's de-aging had finally stopped, somewhere between ten and six.

In the distance a dog barks. Sam can see the town about twenty miles away. The field he found is quiet, calm—and then Dean screeches, shouting, _Sammy!_

The gun is in his hand and he's at Dean's back before he's even considered moving. Dean's puffed up and snarling. A man is there, crouched down, eyes wide. And he's holding a boy, hands on the child's neck. The boy is limp, unmoving.

_Sammy, I can't hear his breath. _Dean slips backwards to stand between Sam's legs.

The man straightens, not looking away from Sam's gun, and lets the boy fall. Dean lunges forward to sniff the child—seven or eight—and he growls, _Dead_.

Sam doesn't move his gaze from the man. "Interesting pet," the bastard drawls, looking from the gun to Dean.

_Get away from him_, Sam commands, stepping forward. **_Now_**_, Dean_.

But Dean gathers himself and Sam knows what he plans. **_No_**, _Dean!_

Dean springs and hooks his claws in the guy's dark blue shirt, climbs up to his shoulder and hisses, biting at him. The man shrieks, trying to grip Dean, curses and spins around.

Sam can't get off a good shot. _Dean!_ he yells. "Get away from him!"

The man drops, hands at his neck. Blood gushes from between his fingers. Dean jumps clear and returns to the boy.

"Help me," the man begs, gasping.

Sam turns his back and picks Dean up, cradles him close. Dean's whimpering, trembling_. 's'kay, Dean_, Sam assures him. _We'll go back to the room, eat, sleep—it's okay. _

_Why did he kill the baby?_ Dean asks.

_Because he was a nasty man_. Sam pauses and tucks the gun away, buries his face in Dean's back. _Sleep, Dean_, he says. _Let me take care of you._

Dean nestles in his grip and sighs.

o0o

Once they're in the room, Sam gently places Dean on the bed closest to the bathroom and curls up around him. Why hadn't he sensed the bastard and dealt with the threat? Dean killed a man. He shouldn't have had to—he's a _baby_.

Sam lightly rubs Dean's spine. He bets that if their positions were reversed, Dean would've already turned him back.

_Sleep, Sammy_, Dean whispers, shifting slightly. _Stop thinkin' so hard_.

o0o

Sam wakes a little after dawn to a huge, full grown black jaguar curled up beside him. Large hazel eyes watch him and Sam swallows. "Dean?" he breathes, unable to look away from the predatory gaze.

_I'm hungry_, Dean's voice says in his head.

"Okay." Sam slowly slips from the bed and Dean's eyes never leave him. "I'll be back with food soon."

He fills up the bathtub with water and Dean jumps from the bed, silently pads over. He laps some up and Sam leaves the hotel room, locks the door behind him.

Holy _fuck_, he's got an adult _panther_. Who's _hungry_. The hell can he get Dean?

He decides to swing by the butcher and buys fifteen pounds of uncooked beef. It drains the majority of their cash, but he'll be able to replenish it. Next he goes to the grocery store, buys a long, shallow box. He's been gone twenty minutes.

Dean's on the dresser when he gets back, carrying the meat in the box. Dean's balanced precariously in the way all cats seem born knowing.

"Okay," Sam says, moving slowly again. He empties the bags of meat into the box. "Here. You eat and I'll go try to see if I can figure out what's going on."

_No_. Dean smoothly lunges from the dresser, approaches the food with liquid grace. He's gigantic for a jaguar—for any cat, actually—head almost reaching Sam's shoulder.

"No?" Sam repeats, backing away, hitting the door.

_No_, Dean tells him again. _You won't go huntin' without me_.

"Dean," Sam says with a disbelieving laugh. "You're a fuckin' enormous _jaguar_. You can't leave the room."

Dean flicks an ear_. I can't protect you, Sam, caged in here_. He gulps down the meat, blood dripping from his jaw, mixing in with the darkness of his fur.

Sam shakes his head, runs his hand through his hair. "So, you _are_ Dean again," he comments, just to say something.

_I never stopped being Dean_. His tail lashes. Sam can't help but trail his eyes along Dean's body, marvel at the beauty.

"You're like the ultimate killer," he says and Dean glances over.

_You will **not** go hunting without me_, Dean repeats, prowling over. His hazel eyes never leave Sam's.

"But you can't leave the room!" Sam argues, quelling beneath Dean's gaze. _The authorities would take you away_, he tries, mentally talking to Dean again. _Please, Dean. I can't lose you. _

Dean rubs against Sam, purring. _You won't_, he promises, settling back on his haunches. His tail flicks and his tongue darts out, cleaning up the blood on his mouth. _Come_ _back in an hour,_ he finally says. _Or I'll find a way out of this room, track you down, and bite you all to Hell. _

"Okay," Sam replies, sagging in relief.

o0o

After a quick shower, Sam leaves. Dean's on the dresser again, entirely too big for it, bathing. Sam takes two guns and three knives, repeats that he'll be back in an hour.

He visits the site of the ex-haunting, but nothing. Swings by the young lady who'd captured Dean's attention—also nothing. Asks around for anyone considered odd or different—gets two names, but time is drawing close and he doesn't want a pissed-off ginormous jaguar on his trail.

Dean's waiting just inside the door. _Three minutes_, he announces as Sam removes the weapons. _Then I'd be after you_.

Sam shares what he's found and Dean jumps up on the bed, stretches out across Sam's legs. _Do some recon, Sam_, he says. _Figure out which of 'em is more likely to be our guy. _

"And then?" Sam asks, roughly rubbing across Dean's back, digging his fingers in.

_Come get_ _me_, Dean responds, arching into the touch. _You **will not** go up against him alone. _

"_Dean_," Sam groans.

Dean softly snarls and flicks his tail against Sam's neck; Sam winces in pain. _We'll wait for dusk, Sam. No one'll see me. But you aren't going alone._ He rubs his head into Sam's chest, knocking him back slightly. _Understood?_

Sam sighs. "Fine. I'll be back later."

_Promise_.

He flops back and Dean stretches out beside him. _I promise not to confront anyone without you, Dean. _

o0o

Mark Adamson is a bust. Old, lives on the edge of town, freaky—but harmless.

Kathryn Willis, though, has potential. He feels a dark presence on her property; it makes his hackles rise.

So he returns to the room. Four hours to sundown, so he decides to nap. Dean's found a way to turn on the TV and flip the channel; he's watching "Oprah." Sam flops on the other bed and mutters, "We'll go after her later."

_Okay_, Dean replies.

o0o

An hour after sunset Dean slips into the backseat of his Impala. He's a moving shadow and if Sam didn't know he was there, he wouldn't see the panther.

_Tell me about this woman_, Dean says.

So Sam talks about how she scares the townspeople, how she never mingles, how she hates men, and the thing he felt as he set foot on her ground.

_Stay here_, Dean commands as Sam pulls off the road a mile away from the Willis property.

_What?_ Sam spins around in his seat and looks in the back; Dean's eyes glow in the scant moonlight.

_Sammy. Stay **here**. _

_And how are you gonna get out of the car? Into the house? _

Cats can't smirk but somehow Dean does. _I'm not just telepathic, Sam_, he laughs, and the back door opens. He slips out and it closes.

Sam gapes. Dean's laughter sounds in his mind and Dean says one more time, **_Stay_**_, Sam. Please. _

It galls him, but he does. He fiddles with one of his guns, taps the steering wheel, lists all of the amendments to the Constitution. Ten minutes after Dean vanishes into the darkness, Sam follows.

o0o

Looking back later, Sam can't recall what happens next. He's walking through the night, then he's in a cage below ground with an old woman glaring at him.

"What are you doin' sneakin' up on my house, boy?" she demands, cloudy eyes hard.

Sam opens his mouth to lie but something in the shadows behind her moves and his gaze flicks to it. It's big and dark. and he's about to warn her when she turns and says, "Nox, come here."

Sam gapes as a panther the size of a Clydesdale horse steps into the light. "Holy fuckin' shit," he whispers as the gigantic cat twines around Kathryn Willis.

"Now," she says, "tell me what you're doin' trespassin' or I'll feed you to Nox—in pieces."

"Did you turn my brother into a jaguar?" Sam asks quickly, rising to his feet. He's too tall to fully stand upright, so he hunches down.

"Your brother that lovely boy with forest eyes?" Willis replies. "Beautiful creature. He'll make a fine addition to my army." She smirks and Nox sits beside her, gleaming blue eyes on Sam.

Sam feels something brush against his mind. "Army?" He tries to follow the presence but it bats him away.

"Men are too proud, trespasser," Willis explains, hand on Nox's head. "But I search for those who are worthy." She smiles, stepping closer to the cage. "And I make them mine. Once I have enough, we'll strike." Her eyes trail along his body. "You would be a gorgeous tiger, you know. I think I'd name you Sol."

The presence bats at him again and then a voice mutters, _We can't hurt her—but if you kill her, we're free. _

A dozen big cats—leopards, cheetahs, jaguars, tigers, lions—step out of the darkness in the corners, each unnaturally large. None are as big as Nox, but each is at least the size of a Morgan horse. They settle around Willis, still and silent. Sam shivers and looks back at the insane old woman.

"You're tryin' to start a war?" He can't keep the disbelief out of his voice.

Willis scoffs. "Just like a man. My goal is beyond your puny comprehension." She turns and threads her way through the cats, pausing at the door. "How's your brother?" she asks. "Still a cub?"

Sam raises his head. "He won't join your army." Sam leaves out the _you crazy **bitch**_, but knows she hears it.

"If he killed someone, boy," she says, "then he's already mine."

_Once we kill_, the same voice whispers, _we're hers for life._

"Visit with my kitties," Willis chuckles. "I'll be back later." She flicks off the tinny light and leaves.

One of the cats—he doesn't know which—brushes against the cage. "Shit," Sam groans. _Dean?_

No answer. "Is my brother gonna get as big as ya'll?" Sam questions the darkness.

_Eventually_, the voice tells him. _But he won't be your brother anymore. I haven't been myself in so long… I can't even remember my name. _

"Nox?" Sam guesses. The cats remain silent.

_Yes. That is what she calls me. I was the first she changed_. The gigantic panther chuffs. _Her favorites are different colors—the white tiger, pale lion, royal cheetah, me. What did she turn him into? _

"A panther," Sam says with a soft, sad laugh. He sinks against the bars, his skin touching Nox's fur. He runs his hand along Nox's flank. "How the hell are we gonna get outta this?"

_She gives each of us a talent, or rather, calls to the forefront something we could already do, though not so well. I can slide through walls._ Sam pulls back, clasps his hands. _I am the king. I am the only other that my companions follow_.

_Dean!_ Sam yells and one of them snarls. He hears movement, then the light flicks on.

_Your brother will obey her_, Nox says. _He_ _will not have a choice_. The three cheetahs slip out the door, one with thick markings instead of spots. Two leopards and a lion follow. _They seek the rogue,_ Nox explains, lying on the floor. _Your brother_. The white tiger, almost Nox's size, jumps up on the cage, stretching out along the top. The cougar sits by Nox while the blond lion hops up on the table. _But he will come here, won't he? She is no fool, our lady. He will come for you, then she will claim him and turn you into a tiger. _

A cat yowls somewhere in the house; Nox shoots to his feet. The lion and cougar lope out the door; the tiger leaps from the cage to stand by Nox.

"What happens," Sam asks, meeting Nox's sapphire eyes, "if _Dean_ kills Willis?"

A different voice, deeper and huskier, says, _Won't happen. He'll die before he can hurt her. _The tiger butts his head against Nox's, rubs along his side, then hurries out.

"What are your names?" Sam questions, trying to keep himself—and his keeper—distracted.

_Only I have one_, Nox responds. _That she would name you shows how much she desires you. _

Another cat yowls then snarls. Sam flinches at a scream. "What's goin' on?" he demands, standing as tall as he can in the cramped quarters.

_Your brother. He can't hurt her but he can try. _

_Dean!_ Sam yells once more—no reply.

"Get me out of here!" Sam begs the gigantic panther. "Please. I can end this!"

Nox regards him for a moment. _You can kill her? You **would**?_

Sam doesn't hesitate. He puts all of his earnestness, all of his determination, into one word. "Yes."

The smallest of the cats, a sleek leopard, slinks into the room, a set of keys held in his mouth. He pads up to the cage and drops his burden through the bars.

_Quickly,_ Nox says while Sam scoffs and scoops up the keys. _Follow him when you are free. _

Nox trots out, a moving shadow, the most dangerous predator Sam has ever seen.

Sam wastes no time in unlocking the cage. The leopard waits for him. _Hurry!_ a young male voice exclaims. _You have to stop her before any of the clan dies. _

He follows the leopard, wondering what age the boy had been when Willis changed him. Not more than sixteen, for sure.

They ascend three levels, the sound of fighting—snarling, shrieking, growling—growing steadily louder. The leopard drops off, but tells Sam, _Keep going. Follow this hall; you'll avoid the battle and find her. _

"Don't hurt Dean," Sam pleads and the leopard peers up at him with sweet brown eyes, tilts his head.

_Nox told us to be careful. But Dean isn't. He refuses to hear us. _

So Sam hurries, looking for Willis, hoping to end the madness before something truly god-awful happens.

_Dean!_ he shrieks with everything in him, searching for Willis. _Please stop fighting them! They're tryin' to help us! _

No response. But he hears a scuffling up ahead and hits a door just as it swings shut. He kicks it in and doubles over as a searing pain shoots up his side.

"Mine," Willis hisses. "Quit fightin', Sol. I can stop the pain, turn you into the greatest predator that ever walked." Sam falls to his knees, hands held to his side. The pain keeps growing. He gasps, unable to speak, and glares up at her. Willis kneels beside him, touches his face. "I love your spirit, Sol. I do. But I'll have to break you more'n any'a the others."

And the pain licks down his side, through his hip and leg, across his torso, up to his head. He can't even whimper.

And then a shout fills his head. _Sammy!_

So Sam reaches out, quick as he can, ignoring everything but the crazy bitch's sparrow-like neck.

And he snaps it.

o0o

"Sam. Wake up."

Something bats his cheek, a feather-soft touch.

"Sammy."

He reaches to knock it away but his hand doesn't move. So he tries speaking, but his mouth is dry, his throat sore. He forces his eyes open and sees a blurry above him. Familiar.

_Home_. "Dean?"

Behind Dean, around him, stands a group of men, all ages and races. But Sam focuses on Dean, on the cut across his forehead, down his face. Sam's eyes trail along his brother's body. "Are you naked?" he croaks out and Dean chuckles, though it sounds fake and forced.

"A bit, yeah," he answers.

Dean's chest and abdomen are dotted with scratches. He kneels over Sam like it hurts.

"What happened?" He has cotton in his mouth.

"Devon," Dean calls. "Get a glass'a water."

Sam's gaze flicks to a boy—can't be more than sixteen, if that—who darts from the crowd. He, too, is naked. A quick glance reveals they all are.

Devon hurries back with a cup of water and hands it to Dean. Dean cradles Sam's head and tilts the brim at his mouth. He gulps the cool liquid down and Dean pulls the glass away. "Slowly, Sam," he soothes. "Slowly." So he sips and Dean only removes the glass when it's empty.

The men fade down the hall one by one and return clothed. One of them—about Dean's size with black hair and blue eyes—drops next to him and offers a green robe. Dean shrugs it on with a hiss.

"Sorry 'bout that," the man says.

Dean shrugs and hisses again. "Not your fault, Nick. I could'a listened to ya'll." He stands and asks, "Would ya'll help me get 'im up?"

Four of the men, including Nick, bend over and grip Sam, gently lift him to his feet.

"Michael," Nick commands, "go with Dean to his car."

Sam watches as Michael—a slight man with dark skin—heads off down the hall. Dean turns to him and gently reaches out to brush Sam's cheek, then spins and follows Michael.

"Cade!" Nick calls and another boy steps forward. "Get a chair for Sam."

The men keep a good hold of him, supporting most of his weight. He still can't remember everything—or, well, _any_thing--that happened and wants to check with Dean before he asks.

Cade returns with a wooden chair and they lower him into it. He looks around, trying to ignore the sharp ache pervading his entire body. They're on the ground floor; he can see trees outside, and the sky. Going by the position of the sun, dawn just passed.

He hears the men quietly talking, though Nick and another stay by him, silent and steady. Distantly comes the Impala's growl and Sam relaxes. Dean pulls up in the front and the men help Sam shuffle out. Dean hurries from the car and takes over, settles Sam shotgun. He gently closes the door and Sam can just make out his and Nick's voices. But his body sinks against the seat and sleep beckons, so he slips under.

o0o

He wakes as Dean turns off the highway. Dean's clothed now, though Sam doesn't know when or where he got the outfit. "Where are we?" he groans, rubbing his eyes.

"Arizona," Dean answers. "'bout fifty miles from the Grand Canyon."

"Dean," Sam asks, sitting up and arching his back, trying to get rid of the steady ache, "what happened?"

Dean looks over and tries smiling. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"Um…" Sam thinks back. "We dealt with that ghost—the farmer."

Dean bangs his head on the steering wheel and groans. "That was a few days ago, Sammy."

"Who were those guys?" Sam asks, turning his head.

Dean sighs. "Let's get some food and a room. Then we'll talk, 'kay?"

"Okay," Sam agrees.


	25. a kind of dying, a kind of birth

**Title**: a kind of dying, a kind of birth

**Disclaimer**: the three you recognize aren't mine. Title from Anne Sexton

**Warnings**: AU before pilot; mentions of child abuse

**Pairings**: OFC/Sam

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 3185

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: written for abouttwoboys; prompt was _Where The Heart Is_

**More notes**: just keep reading—Dean will show up!

**Still more notes**: thanks to H. for reading over this

* * *

Sam believed his life began when he met Madeline. He'd been newly fifteen, gangly and awkward; she'd been a worldly twenty-two and didn't see him as just a boy. She looked at him and saw the man he'd be, the man she could spend her life with.

When he was with her, it took him away from the Wilkerson's fake home where they had barely enough room for their blood children. Sam hated life with his foster family, especially the father, Steven. He felt no hesitation in taking his anger out on Sam, since they had no blood connection.

Madeline didn't treat Sam like a burden. She didn't look on him like an accident. She wanted him for _him_, and he'd never felt that since before the system.

They met at the neighborhood pool, Sam watching over Abby and Adam, Steven's twin kids. The kids were sweet, since Steven never hurt them. Abby fell in the deep end and began splashing around, laughing at first, then screaming. Sam dove in and grabbed her, holding her above the water. Madeline was an off-duty lifeguard and took Abby from him, settling her on the concrete. Sam thanked her; after making sure Abby was okay, he picked up his foster-sister and took the twins home.

Steven flipped, of course, and led Sam to the basement. It was a major beating, the worst he'd yet received, and Steven left him there that night.

It was three weeks before Sam saw Madeline again and he didn't recognize her. But she said, "Hey, you're the guy who saved that girl" and he looked again—she was in jeans and a tight T-shirt instead of a bikini, her blonde hair loose instead of in a braid, and she wore make-up. She was beautiful.

She spoke quickly and fluidly, inviting him to join in—and he was in love. Within three days, he was already imagining forever.

After their third date, she took him home and took his virginity. After their fourth date, she told him that she wanted to go to Hollywood, where the modeling gigs would line up for her and set their future easily.

Two months in, Madeline told him she was pregnant. She didn't seem happy, but Sam was ecstatic. He'd always been fascinated by children, and to think—he'd now have one of his very own, a little life that needed him.

Madeline sat him down on her couch and settled beside him, looking up at him with her big blue eyes.

"Sam," she said. "Do we really want this baby?"  
He was gobsmacked. "Of course we do, Maddy!"

She canted her head, studying him. "You want to the baby?"

Sam nodded earnestly, wrapping his arms around her. "Please, let me have this baby."

Madeline reached up, threaded her fingers in his hair. "Okay, Sammy," she said. "For you."

-

In the following months, Sam spent as much time with Madeline as he could. He read every childcare book he got his hands on, saved money so he could provide for his lover and child.

He gave Steven no reason or opportunity to beat him, but watched the twins, analyzing their every move, seeing how children acted.

A few weeks after Sam's sixteenth birthday, Madeline went into labor. Sam accompanied her to the hospital and never went back to the Wilkerson's.

It was an easy, quick, uncomplicated birth and Madeline let Sam name their daughter: Cora Bethany. Madeline didn't want to hold her, which the doctor said was normal. But Sam cradled his daughter, unable to look away from her, and knew that he loved her more than anything else in the entire world.

-

As soon as Madeline was physically able, she packed them up and had Sam drive them out of town. It took no convincing on Sam's part: he would follow her to the ends of the Earth, as long as she had Cora. They left Miami and headed for Atlanta; Madeline had family there. She told Sam to stay with Cora in the motel room while she visited, and he was happy to do so.

All Cora did was eat, sleep, and poop so far, but Sam could watch her for hours admire her perfect little fingers and her perfect little toes, trace the gentle curve of her perfect little ear. He didn't comprehend how Madeline never wanted to hold her, but he knew she'd come around eventually.

Madeline returned to the room just before dawn, smelling like alcohol. She collapsed onto the bed and slept till late afternoon. When she woke, she tackled Sam, barely giving him enough time to set Cora down.

"C'mon, Sammy," she purred, tugging at his shirt. "You're a guy—I know you always want it."

"Madeline!" he said, horrified. "We can't—not with Cora _right there_!"

She pouted. "Then put her outside. I wanna fuck!"

Their first argument followed and Madeline flounced out, again not coming back till dawn. She apologized and Sam forgave her, but he never left her alone with Cora again.

-

They left Georgia, Madeline driving. It was a tight fit, but Sam scrunched in the back next to Cora. He whispered stories to her, telling her what little he remembered of his life before the system. "We have family out there," he said, gently rubbing his finger along her face. "They got lost somewhere, my dad and brother. But they loved me, I know that. I was small, not much older than you, but I fought when the system tore me away."

Sam didn't remember faces, or even names, but he _knew_ they were out there. And he told Cora. When his scant memories failed, he moved on to history and myth, to fairy tales and nursery rhymes. He'd always loved telling stories.

In Kansas, they ran out of diapers. Madeline just wanted to drive through, ignoring the problem, but Sam demanded she stop at the next town.

She pulled up at a Wal-mart in Lawrence and they trooped in. Madeline made for the cosmetics while Sam tracked down the baby stuff. He jiggled Cora, holding her to his chest with one hand, searching for the best kind of diapers. She kept whimpering. His heart ached; she was miserable, his girl, completely _miserable_, and he couldn't fix the situation quickly enough.

Finally he chose a brand and hurried to the bathroom, where he tore open the package and changed her diaper. It took a few moments but she calmed and he kissed the top of her head. "Feel better, sweetheart?" he asked. "Thank god."

He swooped her back up and straightened the mess, then went searching for Madeline. He found her paying for blush and powder; "You check out," she said. "I'll bring the car around."

Sam agreed. He went to the end of the line and when he exited the store with his purchase, Madeline wasn't there. He waited, shushing Cora as she got hungry, and Madeline never arrived.

-

Wal-mart closed at ten. Sam had fifteen hundred in cash on him. He decided to spend the night in the store, so he hid in the bathroom. After all was quiet, he crept from the stall to the food and looked for baby formula. Cora was famished; he heated up her meal in the breakroom's microwave and wandered around the store, feeding her. He cradled her to sleep, crooning lullabies, and held off on freaking out. He didn't get tired, too nervous about being found and too pissed at Madeline.

He couldn't believe she left him and their daughter, just drove away with all the supplies. For now the anger sustained him, kept him going. If he stopped to think, though… he was alone in a strange city with little money and a life fully dependent on him. And he was still just a kid himself—he'd never longed more for a family than in that moment, in a dark Wal-mart with a sleeping infant in his arms.

Sam hid them in the bathroom as the store opened and then ambled out. He had to think of a plan, something to do. Going back to Miami wasn't an option. He'd never set foot there again. Hollywood, to find Madeline? He'd smack her across the face if he saw her anytime soon, and he bet that wouldn't go over well.

He walked down the street to a McDonald's; he hadn't eaten since lunch yesterday. He also needed to find a way to pay for the baby formula now digesting in Cora's belly.

"Such a sweetheart!" a female voice cooed, the owner stepping in his path: she was short and dark, grinning bright enough to light a city. She peered at Cora, who was looking around wide-eyed. "How old is she?"  
"Three weeks," he answered in a daze.

"She's just gorgeous." The woman pulled back, looking up at him. "New to town?"

He nodded, glancing past her at the door, and his stomach growled.

"Ah, honey, I'm sorry," she exclaimed. "I'm keepin' you from your meal." She smiled at Cora again. "Take care of this angel and yourself, you hear?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said, and she bustled off. He watched her go, bemused, then hurried into McDonald's.

-

At dusk, Sam returned to Wal-mart. He picked out two containers of formula and bought them, then left. He'd scouted out a motel during the day.

Cora hadn't cried since Madeline left. Sam, long since fallen out of love with her, took that as a sign.

Sam got a room for dirt cheap, which didn't bode well for cleanliness. By now he was exhausted, so he fed and burped Cora, then stretched out atop the blankets, placing Cora on his chest.

He needed to shower. How could he do that and still watch Cora? He hadn't used the bathroom since Madeline left. It wasn't an emergency yet, but that was another thing to worry about.

Cora depended solely on him, but he had to take care of himself, too. Sam placed one hand on Cora's back, lightly rubbing circles. She was his whole world, and he was already letting her down, _failing_ her.

"Hey, baby girl," he whispered. "We'll make it, I promise. I'll give you a good life."

He closed his eyes, trying to think of how to make his words true, and slipped into sleep.

-

Cora woke up hungry twice that night and Sam heated up her formula with the blow-dryer in the bathroom. She didn't cry, just whimpered, which made Sam feel like the worst father in the world.

When he got up in the morning, Cora was still asleep so he placed her in the middle of the bed and hurriedly went about his business. Cora still slept when he went back out, so he decided to quickly bathe.

A part of him wanted to cry as the water streamed from the showerhead, to break down beneath the load. But the rest of him, the strength that let him survive Steven Wilkerson, refused. He had a life depending on him, his baby daughter. Even if he felt like a kid himself, he could not let her down, could _not_ fail her. She needed him strong, capable.

He heard her sniffling as he toweled off, so he pulled his jeans back on—forgoing the underwear as too dirty—and rushed to her.

"I'm here, baby," he said, scooping her up. He walked over to the table where he'd left the Wal-mart bag of formula. He heated it up some more in the bathroom and Cora paid attention this time, staring at the noise-maker with wide, fascinated eyes. She drank the lukewarm formula happily enough and Sam was relieved. She hadn't shown much interest last night, so he'd worried.

"You wanna go to the park today?" he asked, putting her back on the bed so he could pull on his shirt. "I think you need some sun; it might make you feel better."

-

Two weeks passed. Sam spent all of his money between Wal-mart, McDonald's, and that same motel. He didn't begin panicking until he was caught in the rain with no shelter. He wrapped his old, threadbare jacket around Cora, sheltering her in his arms. He'd been feeling sluggish for a few days, but at dawn, after being rained on all night, he realized he was in serious trouble.

He spent the day at the park, holding Cora away every time he coughed. His throat ached and his chest felt tight, and there was pressure building in his head. If he got Cora sick, he would never _ever_ forgive himself.

Sam sat in the sun, feeding Cora cold formula he'd stolen from Wal-mart, hoping the heat would kill infection.

When he shivered all night long, huddled on a park bench around Cora, he knew it hadn't worked and he needed to find help before he became completely incapacitated.

-

Sam thought it was Friday, but he couldn't be sure. He walked, carrying his daughter. If he just kept walking, he'd be fine.

He was cold inside, shivering and shuddering. If he walked in the sunlight, he'd warm up—he _would_. He had to. Cora needed him.

"Hey, man, you alright?"  
He thought he was falling. Someone grabbed his arm, reaching out for Cora.

"No," he slurred. "She's mine. Gotta look after her." He peered up through his bangs, at tan skin and greenish eyes, bright light hurting his head even more.

A man looked down at him, supporting most of his weight. "Okay," he said. "But let's get you down on the ground 'fore you fall, huh?" He lowered them slowly; Sam went with him, too exhausted and confused to fight.

"I'm Dean."

Sam looked up at him, squinting against the bright sun. _Dean_. That hit a chord inside him, but everything seemed far away.

"Do you think you can let me hold her, there, kiddo?" Dean kept his voice soft, warm, and Sam wanted to thank him for it because it grounded him. "I'm not taking her away, but your grip don't seem too steady."

"Don't keep her," he said. "She's mine."

"I promise, dude. You'll get her back." Dean slowly and gently extracted Cora from Sam's limp arms.

"Sam," he said, hands falling to his sides. "M'name's Sam."

"Sam," Dean repeated softly. "It's nice to meet you. Stay with me, okay? This little beauty here needs you."

He wanted to stay, he did, but he could trust the guy holding his daughter. Everything in his body told him so.

Sam's eyes slid closed.

-

The air smelled clinically clean, not like the park. The blanket was rough on his skin.

"Back with us, baby?" a soft voice asked and he blinked, letting his eyes adjust.

The dark woman holding his daughter was familiar.

"I'm Missouri Moseley," she said. "My son's the boy that helped you at the park."

The park. Where he'd fainted and let a stranger take his daughter.

"That was three days ago, honey," she continued. "No one's been by to check on you or this angel, even though your story's run on the news."

"Can I hold her?" he croaked, flinching at the sound.

Ms. Moseley smiled. "'course you can. She's yours. Been cryin' up a storm if we take her too far away." She stood and leaned over him, arranging his arms around Cora. He felt weak and helpless. "You're doin' good," Ms. Moseley told him. "Beatin' back that flu you been workin' on. A few more days to build up your strength and you'll be able to go home."

Sam stared down at Cora, his little angel blinking up at him. Home. Back to the streets.

"I'll go tell Dr. Frederick you woke up," Ms. Moseley said. "And someone from child services needs to talk to you as well, honey."

His whole body tightened. "I won't let those people take Cora," he vowed. "Not ever."

Ms. Moseley studied him, eyes sympathetic. "Do you have anywhere to go, Sam?"

He didn't want to lie. "No'm."

She nodded. "I figured as much. I have an extra room, warm food. You can stay with me, long as you need."

He stared at her. "What?"  
She smiled. "Don't think I make a habit of collectin' strays, boy. But I did it once before, and it's the best decision I ever made."

Sam's mind whirled. "You'll let me stay with you? But what if I'm a thief or killer?"

Ms. Moseley chuckled. "I know a thing or two about people, honey. You're a thief only when you got no other option. With me, you won't need to steal. And you're no more a killer than I'm an Amazon princess." She stood up and patted his arm. "Think about it, Sam. I'm goin' get the doctor."

-

Dr. Frederick assured Sam that Cora was completely healthy and that he could leave the hospital in a couple of days. The child services lady, though, asked Sam where his parents and Cora's mother were.

Sam was alone with Mrs. Kaiser. Ms. Moseley had Cora out in the hall. "My parents are gone," Sam told her, looking at his hands. "Madeline—Cora's mom—left us. She never wanted Cora; I do."  
"You're a bit young to be taking care of a baby, Sam," Mrs. Kaiser said gently. "You don't have money or a home. Don't you think your daughter would be better off with a family?"

Sam's hands tightened into fists. "I was in the system, ma'am." His voice was soft and he strained to keep his temper. "It was Hell. I had one good home in ten years, and then I was taken from there because they had too many kids." He looked up, meeting her eyes. "My daughter will _never_ go in the system."

Mrs. Kaiser sighed. "You need a steady supply of money, Sam. A roof over your head. Raising a child is hard work. You're still just a kid yourself, Sam."

He nodded. "I know. But Ms. Moseley's invited me to live with her. I'll go back to school and get a job after I graduate. Would you be happy with that?"

After a moment, Mrs. Kaiser said, "I'll talk to her."

-

Ms. Moseley and Mrs. Kaiser worked out the details while Sam slept. He woke up to Dean in the chair next to his bed, softly singing to Cora.

"So I hear you're comin' live with us, Sammy," Dean said, glancing up.

"Yeah," Sam answered. "Are you okay with that?"

Dean traced his finger lightly along Cora's jaw. "Before Mom took me in, I had a brother. I don't remember what happened to him, or the rest of my family." He looked back at Sam, hazel eyes warm. "His name was Sam, too. That, I _do_ remember." He stared at Sam for a moment before smiling. "I've missed havin' a brother."

Sam smiled, too, and then asked, "Think I could hold my daughter?"

Dean chuckled. "I dunno, dude. She likes me. She might not want you back."

Sam just looked at him, with one eyebrow raised, letting a faint pout suffuse his features. Dean laughed before handing her over.


	26. ablation

**Title**: ablation

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: blasphemy; future AU; spoilers for up to "Bedtime Stories"

**Pairings**: Azazel(Yellow-Eyed Demon)/Crossroad's Demon; John/Mary

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 3845

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Dedication**: fairiekween13. This fic was going a completely different direction when I talked to her; I think the end product is much better.

**Notes**: This story is told piecemeal; it jumps around in time, tense, and point of view.

**More notes**: thanks to the lovely sadelyrate for reading over this

* * *

_You ready for this? You ain't seen nothin' yet._

o0o

Before he was born, Sam Winchester dreamed. Oh, all babies do, of course, secure and warm inside their mamas, safe and happy in the quietdark place. They dream of what was and what is and what will be, of the world yet to come and the world that has been.

All babies dream. But only two people have ever remembered, in the long history of the world. And that? Makes Sam a very special boy indeed.

o0o

It's a familiar, oft-told story: heroes, quests, villains, death, violence, blood, fire, Right and Good against Wrong and Evil, Mama killed and Papa raising the baby alone.

Except, there's two minor differences in this case, anomalies in the story.

The first? That Sam was secondborn.

The second? That John Winchester didn't drown in his cups. Instead of raising frightened boys into belligerent men, he raised warriors.

o0o

And Sam still dreamed. He saw other worlds, what-ifs and could-have-beens; he saw the far past and distant future. As time went on, as he grew and learned, Sam realized how odd the clarity of his dream-recall truly was.

He kept it to himself, this knowledge, hidden deep inside his most secret place.

It was frightening—but also exhilarating. All children wish to be different, special. Sam remembered his womb-dreams: he was in a class all his own.

o0o

But what of him being secondborn? How does that change things? There are Chosen, each with a gift. Blood is dribbled on their tongue on a certain night, some mothers are killed and some are not. No gift is repeated; Azazel is too clever for that.

But each Chosen is a sponge and can soak up other gifts, to varying degrees, and Sam Winchester most of all. United, the Chosen are an undefeatable army. They could take the world with ease.

And every army needs a general. That's where Sam comes in.

o0o

John Winchester knew, of course, from the beginning. Mary never lied to the man she loved. He knew she wasn't normal, but he didn't care. He adored her.

She told him the price that came for their time together, but they were young and in love, and the day of reckoning seemed so far away. Dean's birth shook them back into fear, but nothing happened and life moved on.

By Sam's birth, John had forgotten and Mary didn't even know what night it was until she saw John asleep in the living room.

o0o

Azazel made a mistake. It was easily done and understandable. And so small—such a tiny mistake. But enough.

Sam remembers every dream he ever had, and he sees the future awake or asleep. He has presence and strength and a sure mind; he knows himself, fully, and accepts all facets as a piece of the whole.

He, of the Chosen, is the general. Azazel wants him to lead, and he will be excellent.

Sam is a leader. Dean is a follower. But—and this is where Azazel went wrong—Sam will _always_ follow Dean.

o0o

In Mama's womb, Baby slept a waking dream. Baby was warm and happy, never hungry or frightened. Baby knew everything was alright.

Sammy, though, knew what would actually come, and in Mama's womb he cried.

o0o

Azazel should have marked Dean that night, or killed him. Sam would never be a firstborn, but even as an only child, Azazel could still claim him.

But Azazel looked at Dean and found him to be no threat.

A costly mistake.

o0o

Mary held her boys and loved them and sang them lullabies. Her husband John, her firstborn Dean, and the special one: her baby Sam.

Dean, she saw, had no ability to separate him. But Sam—

Oh, her poor Sam. He had such a hard road.

o0o

Dad treated Sam like he was a normal boy. At the time, Sam hated it. Looking back, though, he sees he has a lot to be thankful for.

o0o

Azazel wanted a general who would become a figurehead king, and he gifted Sam above all the Chosen.

He had no place in his plans for Dean. If he'd killed Dean as a child, that wouldn't have been problem.

But Sam is a loyal boy. And by the time Azazel comes back for him, twenty-two years after the Marking, Sam's loyalty is placed firmly on Dean.

o0o

And therein lies what Sam being secondborn _really_ means.

None of the rest of Azazel's Chosen had to split. He either ruined their childhoods and twisted them irrevocably or he took them as adults who had strained relationships because of their unavoidable oddness.

But Sam Winchester was the only one with a sibling who wasn't gifted. Even Andrew Gallagher's brother, his elder twin Ansem, had an ability.

But Dean? He was as normal as they come.

Even if the world kept bending around him, finding ways to keep him alive.

And that? Can be fully blamed on Sam.

o0o

Sam dreamed in Mama's womb. He knew what all would come long before he had the words to express it. And he remembered after he left the quietdark safety and fell screaming into the world.

o0o

Azazel wanted a general. Instead he got Sam Winchester, a man who knew every twist and turn of the future, every secret of the past.

Azazel killed Sam's parents and lover, stole all of Sam's hopes for tomorrow. Azazel never worried about Dean. He believed the boy who had no ability would never be a threat.

But Dean grew and learned, becoming a warrior of unsurpassed skill. He cared for people on the whole, but loved only his family. If given a choice between his family or a town of innocents, he'd pick his father and brother every time.

Azazel never understood that Sam felt the same for Dean.

o0o

Mary told John once that she never feared tomorrow because she knew with surety that Sam would never be alone.

o0o

John taught his boys to track, to hunt, to fight, to shoot, to kill. Sam always dragged his feet, but Dean soaked up every lesson.

Sam knew the future, if only he could find the memories. Dean remembered the past, his childhood with Mama and Daddy, and he swore as his father and brother slept that he would always keep them safe.

o0o

Azazel came for Sam in the night, a year after Dad. Dean failed and Sam was lost.

Dean found his little brother just in time to hold Sam as he died.

o0o

Sam dreamed in the womb. As Death draws him close, he dreams again.

_Let me go_, he tries to tell his big brother.

Dean cannot hear him, and wouldn't listen if he could. He promises, no matter the cost, to bring Sam back home.

o0o

Azazel learned only after his Chosen general returned to the world exactly why he should have killed Dean.

It was always war and he died, destroyed by a boy he'd never imagined a threat.

But they, the remaining Winchesters, were still caught in his plan, two struggling flies in a giant spider web.

o0o

Sam dreams of a time before, when Mama whirled around the kitchen, holding him her arms, laughter spiraling to the sky. Daddy picked Dean up and they danced together, so happy it makes him weep for the loss.

o0o

Sam died. He was dead for almost a day. Mom met him at the gate with a sad smile. "Not yet," she said. "You can't come in now."

He looked past her, at the golden streets and bejeweled buildings. "It's beautiful," he mused. "But so cold."

Mom stared up at him, lifting a hand to his face. He nuzzled into the touch, the only time he can remember feeling her skin on his. "You won't be alone, Sam," she said. "Let him keep you."

Sam nodded. Mom knew, too.

o0o

_Tell me_, the demon—Azazel—whispers in the night. _Are you sure what you brought back is completely Sam?_

Dean watches the shadows on the ceiling and listens to Sam breathe.

_What's dead should stay dead, Dean. You said it yourself._

"Dean," Sam says softly.

He rolls over to look at Sam; Sam's eyes gleam in the darkness.

"Go back to sleep, man," Dean says. "Long day tomorrow."

"Dean," Sam repeats.

"I know, dude," he says. "Me, too."

o0o

Azazel wanted a puppet, someone he could manipulate, someone he could control.

Instead he got someone so immensely strong the oldest demon in existence followed his command.

Azazel wasn't around to see that, though.

o0o

"Just tell me who you are," Sam says.

Ruby puts him off.

"Just tell me who you are," he repeats.

She deflects.

"Just _tell me who you are_!" he demands and Ruby answers, "Fine," blinking her eyes to show the inky darkness.

Lucifer smirks up at the boy-king, her replacement, her heir, and finds him beautifully charming.

o0o

The dealmaker and Azazel were lovers. Demons _do_ love, you know. They were together before Christ's birth, wreaking havoc in what would one day be the Americas.

The dealmaker's name is lost; only Azazel ever used it and he called her an ancient word for _Dove_ most often.

When Dean murdered Azazel, the dealmaker felt hollow. Anger came a short while later. She'd already made the deal, or she'd have taken him then.

Thousands of years together, and suddenly she couldn't feel Azazel anymore. He was completely gone, out of reach. She stretched for him, but he wasn't there. He wasn't anywhere.

Dean Winchester, that boy he never thought about for more than half a moment, killed Azazel, the strongest demon in creation.

Ruby, that damned upstart who'd claimed to be Lucifer, had plans that tangled with Azazel. The dealmaker knew she would ruin what Azazel died for, and that could _not_ be allowed.

But Sam Winchester, Azazel's Chosen, Azazel's favorite, brother of Azazel's destroyer, killed Azazel's bride.

o0o

Dean's time is running out and Sam has no idea what to do. He knows that he knows how to get Dean free, but he can't find the way. It's in his head somewhere, hidden in his mind.

He dreamed of this, tucked safe and warm inside Mama. He saw Dean's stupid deal, but he didn't remember till it happened, and that pisses him off. He has all this information but he can't access it. It's there, but he can't reach out and touch it.

Dean's accepted his lot, but Sam hasn't. Dean is ready and willing to go because he thinks his purpose is done: Sam's alive.

But Sam knows better, knows that without Dean, he'll probably become what Azazel wanted, what Ruby still wants.

o0o

Heaven didn't let him in. He wonders if Heaven will go to war for Dean's soul.

o0o

Two days left of Dean's year, a measly forty-eight hours, and Sam wakes with the knowledge found.

He rolls over, stares at Dean's peacefully sleeping form, and laughs.

That crossroad's bitch. She knew. But Dean killed Azazel, so she was in no mood to share.

o0o

Mary kissed Dean after tucking him in every night of his life before November. She told him something with a soft smile, cupping his cheek, infusing the words with promise. Twenty-three years down the road, he only remembers part of the message.

_Angels are watching over you, my sweet, angels with darkened wings._

o0o

John told Dean a half-truth and knew Dean would never do it. As he walked away, he wanted to ask forgiveness.

But he steeled himself because Azazel had no mercy and no idea what Dean brought to the table.

No demon had ever truly understood a human's capacity for selfless devotion. Most humans didn't even understand how deeply Dean's love for his brother ran.

But John did. He'd helped craft it. And he died with the hope in his heart that it would be enough, because it was the last hope left.

o0o

A day left of Dean's year and he watches the sunrise. He doesn't know what's coming; Sam killed the dealmaker, but she didn't hold the contract. So who will claim him and lead him to Hell?

He's happy—Sam's safe. All the demons are back in Hell and he's leaving no unfinished business. He's given everything to Sam, like he always has.

He'll go willingly with whatever comes for him, because he's done.

o0o

In Mama's womb, Sam saw the end of the world. It isn't fire or ice, or even human activity. One day, every living thing just dies. God lets it happen, then repopulates the Earth with his chosen, those beings of Heaven.

In Mama's womb, Sam didn't understand. Now, a man grown, he does.

o0o

Heaven's gate did not open for him when he died.

So he forces it open, Colt in one hand, and strides down the golden street. Mama watches in silence, neither condemning nor agreeing, and Dad holds her close. He nods as Sam passes.

Dean's asleep back on Earth, in a cheap motel, sedated almost into a coma. Sam'll deal with that fallout when Dean wakes up to realize that the year is done and only Sam came for him.

Ruby follows Sam with dainty steps, her demon-killing knife sheathed at her hip.

What Sam remembers that he always knew is that it's not the weapon that kills. It's the intent behind it.

Lucifer is god of demons because none of them believe she ever lived. Ruby was cast from Hell centuries ago for daring to say she was the LightBringer.

Lucifer hasn't set foot in Heaven since she dared demand worship. Now she docilely follows Azazel's Chosen.

She understands humans in a way no other angel, fallen or pure, ever has.

"Samuel," God's voice booms. "What are you doing?"

Archangels line up, flaming swords held loosely in their magnificent fists, glorious wings ready to catapult them forward for the killing blow.

Only two children have ever remembered their womb-dreams, and one of them is Son of God. Sam cannot claim that title.

"I'm here for the world, Yahweh," Sam says, the words ringing clearly off Heaven's precious stones, the angels flinching as he dares utter God's holy name. "Give me the Earth and I'll go."

God appears before him, an old dark-skinned man in a white robe. "Why do you want Earth?" God asks.

Sam is at ease, as is God, but the angels and Ruby spoil for a fight.

"Why is _that_ here?" Uriel hisses, eyes on the first of the fallen.

Ruby grins. "I follow Sam," she says, shifting on her feet. "Does that bother you?"  
God tells them, "Silence." Uriel subsides. Ruby shrugs.

"You will destroy it in a few millennia," Sam says, ignoring everything but God. "I don't want that to happen."

God straightens, fire billowing in his eyes. "I am the Creator, boy," he says, Heaven trembling beneath their feet. "My will is all that matters."

Ruby's glee is palpable as Sam raises the Colt and utters one word.

"Wrong."

o0o

It is a swift, brutal war. Demons stream through the destroyed gate and battle angels. Anything that gets too close to Sam with intent to kill turns to dust.

Finally, only Jesus and Sam stand on the tarnished street. Most of Heaven's citizens have fled; John and Mary are down the way, watching, guarded by Sam's power and blood. Demons crouch on the edge, captive angels waiting for Sam's judgment.

"What do you want, Samuel Winchester?" the Lamb of Heaven asks quietly, brown eyes full of sorrow.

"I want Earth," Sam repeats. "I will leave you Heaven and all your folk, so long as you swear fealty to me."

Jesus gazes around Heaven, at the blood and destruction. "Very well," he says. "Take Earth. Leave me what remains of Heaven and I will never make war on you."

o0o

Azazel had plans. He would rule from behind the throne, the true power. Sam was meant to be easily manipulated after he came out on top.

But he wasn't. He was weak and let Jake Talley kill him. He died. Because of Dean, Sam came back.

Azazel had not planned on that. When he realized his Chosen had gone and gotten himself killed, he called his wife and told her that if Dean Winchester summoned her, to make the deal.

"Gladly," she said. "I owe that arrogant pup a thing or two."

So Azazel thought he had won, despite Sam's spectacular failure. Darkness encroached on Sam's edges, blossoming in his cold-blooded murder of his own murderer. Sam took one giant step toward Azazel in that graveyard, Jake's lifeblood dotting his face.

And then Dean got a hold of the Colt, and Azazel was not faster than a speeding bullet.

Azazel had no room in the master-plan for Dean Winchester, the normal human, and his last thought was _Damn_.

o0o

Sam led his forces back to Hell and told Ruby, "Resume Lucifer."

She smiled and shed the skin. All the demons stepped back, awed. Sam turned to look over them, the survivors. "This is Lucifer, Lord of Hell," he said. They knelt and he continued, "_I_ am King."

Lucifer howled loyalty, her chilling voice rolling across Hell's plains.

"Do as you like with Hell," Sam commanded. "But only leave if I summon you."

The demons spread out, exhilarant with their sweeping victory in Heaven.

"Azazel did not intend this," Lucifer said, voice deep and dark, now larger than Sam. "He would not be glad of this end."

Sam laughed. "It doesn't matter now. I am King of Heaven and Hell." He smiled at his lieutenant, the oldest demon in existence. "Stay here, LightBringer, Lord of Hell. Come to me only if I summon you."

Lucifer inclined her head respectfully. "As you say, King, Lion of All."

o0o

Dean wakes long after sunrise. Sam is leaning against the window, looking out. Dean yawns, sitting up. There's something he should be remembering. "Time's it?" he asks, throat sore. He rubs at his neck.

"'bout eleven," Sam answers quietly.

Dean cocks his head, straining for the date, but it's out of reach. He studies the set of Sam's shoulders. "What's wrong?"  
Sam laughs. "I did a bad thing this morning," he says.

Dean rolls out of bed and pads over. The carpet is rough on his feet and the air cold on his skin, and there is something he should be remembering, but his focus is completely on Sam. "What'd you do?" He doesn't think it'll be that awful—Sam probably took the car and ran a stop sign, or something.

"I led the army of Hell into Heaven." Sam doesn't look over. "I killed God with the Colt. I reinstated Lucifer as Lord of Hell." He laughs and it sounds slightly mad. "I am the King, Dean. I am the Lion of All."

Dean can't think of a thing to say. Finally, "Are you joking?" bursts out of him. "That's not funny, Sam."

Sam turns, face serious and solemn. "No, it's not," he agrees, and the date screams into Dean's head. "It's not funny at all."

o0o

In Mama's womb, the Son of God spoke to Sam. _Father will not give you what you want, _the Lamb of Heaven said.

Sam, the Lion of All, asked, _And you will?_

Jesus paused. Sam waited.

_I gave it to you already_. Jesus' voice was filled with love. _I gave you Dean_.

o0o

Azazel did not plan for Dean; nor did God. He slipped into life, a gift of one special boy to another, and only those two knew his true, boundless worth.

o0o

As Dean rants at Sam for sedating him and storming Heaven, as Dean runs out of words and sinks onto the bed in wonder and horror, Sam turns his inward gaze to Heaven and whispers, _Thank you_.

Jesus, on the golden street, trying to calm his people, replies, _You are welcome, my brother of spirit._

It could have been so much worse, and they both know it.

_Forgive me?_ Sam asks, basking in Dean's presence.

There is a pause before Jesus answers, _Yes_.

"Sam." Dean's voice is gentle, just this side of lost. "What…"

Sam kneels in front of him and looks up to meet his eyes. "I'm still me, Dean," he reassures his brother. "I just now know what all that means." He reaches up slowly to touch Dean's face.

Dean does not pull away.

o0o

Mary told John, curled up in his arms after their first love-making, _My son will rule creation. _

John rubbed her arm. _Okay_, he agreed, mostly asleep.

She laid her head over his heart, listening. _He will be a good man_, she whispered. _He will be._

o0o

Lucifer waited for centuries after Azazel led the coup in Hell, casting her out. She waited and she watched the traitor's plan unfold.

She howled with mirth when Azazel died, killed by her brother's selfless gift. And she knew then that she must act, must throw in her lot with the Lion, the man would be King.

Lucifer understands humans. That is why she refused to bow before them in Heaven. She knows they are not better than angels or demons, nor are they less.

They simply are.

o0o

Dean doesn't know what to think or do. He stares at Sam, mind racing, trying to think of something to say. Anything at all.

"God's really real?" It isn't what he meant, but it'll do.

Sam laughs. "Was."

Dean nods, completely at a loss.

"I left Jesus in charge of Heaven. Lucifer's rulin' Hell." Sam licks his lips and Dean can't look away from his haunted, terrified eyes. "But I'm their boss."

"You," Dean says. "My geeky kid brother. The higher-up of the highest-ups. God's killer."

Sam ducks his head. "Please don't hate me, Dean." He lets his arm fall away, back to his side. "Please don't hate me."

This is Sammy. This man, this monster. This is Sammy, who wanted Lucky Charms and always gave Dean the prize. This is Sammy, of too-long hair and skinned knees, of puppy eyes and temper tantrums. This is Sammy, the baby he kissed goodnight in Mom's last moments alive.

This is Sammy.

"I could never hate you." Dean is sure of that. "Now get up, 'cause you're startin' to freak me out."

Relief sweeps Sam's face and he rises from his knees, settling too close beside Dean on the bed. But Dean doesn't move.

"So, now what?" Dean asks.

He feels Sam shrug. "Whatever you want. We could hunt—all the demons are back in Hell, but ghosts are still around."

Dean bites his lip. He suspects, but—"If you killed God, why didn't everything end?"

Sam stiffens before breathing deeply. "I took his place."

Dean has nothing to say to that except, "Okay."

o0o

Azazel's Chosen was quite the special boy. But not quite the way Azazel meant. Azazel wanted to rule Heaven, Earth, and Hell unopposed, with Sam Winchester as his figurehead.

But something went wrong in Azazel's plan.

Jesus, Lamb of Heaven, gave Sam a big brother, a mere human boy. And Azazel overlooked the child, allowing him to keep his life.

A simple, tiny mistake.

But a fatal one.


	27. If he were I, he would do what I did

**Title**: If he were I, he would do what I did

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Sylvia Plath.

**Warnings**: AU

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 2550

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: for the spncwfairytale challenge, to _Orpheus and Eurydice_ prompt. Very little of the original myth remains.

**More** **notes**: thanks to smilla02 for giving this a looksie!

* * *

Sam left the Gate open behind him as he descended into Hell. He held Ruby's demon-killing knife clenched in his right fist and a small vial of his own blood in his left. Hidden on his person were three blessed guns and half a dozen consecrated knives.

He didn't expect to succeed and he doubted very much he'd survive. But he had to at least attempt; after everything Dean had done, Sam had to try.

o0o

_Dean didn't fight the hounds, didn't try to run. By the time Sam got there, Dean was long-dead and half-eaten. Sam cleaned him as best he could and burned him, poured a dozen pounds of salt on him._

_Sam didn't forgive himself for failing. Being too late. He barely breathed in the weeks after, rarely ate, never slept or bathed. _

_It was even worse than those months after Broward County, because Sam couldn't hunt down and kill Hell._

_o0o_

The first screaming shade Sam came across didn't speak English. So Sam stabbed it and kept on. The next five only howled gibberish. After that, he quit counting.

By the time he found the Palace, his clothes were burned off, his skin peeling, muscles sliced, covered in blood and ash. He'd used all the consecrated knives and blessed guns; even Ruby's knife had been wrenched from his grasp and tossed into a pit of fire.

Before approaching the Palace, Sam held the small vial to his lips and drained it down. Almost instantly, his flesh healed, his muscle reknit, his bones were covered again.

Sam tossed the vial away; the sound of glass shattering was covered by fire's screams.

o0o

_Sam couldn't hunt down Hell, couldn't kill it, couldn't bargain with it. Hell was not an entity—but its lord was. Hell's lord—Satan, Lucifer, the devil—whoever, __**what**__ever, Sam __**could**__ speak to him. _

_He didn't go to Bobby for help. Bobby would try to stop him, try to convince him that Dean wanted him to move on._

_Sam knew that. Knew Dean would tell him to let go, live his life. And Dean would mean it._

_But Sam didn't care. Dean had sold himself to get Sam back, and Sam would do anything he could to return the favor._

_Anything at all. _

o0o

No demons or shadows or shades came near him as he strode down the hill to Hell's Palace. Naked as the day he was born, Sam felt heat on his skin but no pain. He had no weapons left but his wit, determination, and love.

The doors blew open before him and Sam stalked in.

o0o

_There were no rituals for what he intended to do, so Sam made it up as he went along. He had the Colt, he knew where the gateway was, he had the demon-killing knife—his plan was quite simple: walk into Hell and look until he found Dean, then convince whoever was in charge to let them go._

_It wouldn't be easy, not at all. He'd probably be torn apart. He had six knives and three guns blessed by a holy man of every major religion, against the hordes of Hell. He drank a gallon of holy water, then bathed in it, against Hell's own army. He figured he didn't stand a chance._

_One medicine man of the Great Plains, the last of his tribe, told Sam that his blood could heal._

_**When you have nothing left,**__ he said, voice old and worn as the wind, __**drink your own life, and you will be strong again.**_

_Sam didn't know what that meant but he filled a small glass container with his own blood, just in case. _

o0o

He strode into a room the size of the Superdome. It was empty except for a large obsidian throne. Sam looked around; after Hell's heat, the room was pleasantly cool.

"Welcome, Samuel Winchester," a resounding, sexless voice said. "I am… impressed."

A being stepped in front of him, naked and pale as fluffy white cloud, neither male nor female.

"You're Lucifer?" he asked in disbelief.

The being laughed, loudly and long. "Oh, no," it chortled, hands clasped before it. "There is no Lucifer, hasn't been in millennia. I am simply the Gatekeeper." It smiled, teeth a jarring shade of red in such a pale face. "You stand in the Gate, Samuel. No one has ever made it so far." It cocked its head, white hair shimmering. "Of course, before you, no one has ever broken _into_ Hell."

Sam grinned mirthlessly. "That's me—always the trendsetter."

The being squared its stance. "To pass through the Gate, you must prove worthy. Hell's favorite souls are kept there—the worst, nastiest folk to ever die…" It paused, clear eyes looking through him. "But, also, the best are kept there, the saints and martyrs who sacrificed themselves for other souls. Your brother is there, Samuel. He screams so prettily, writhing beneath the greatest of demons, torn open and tasted, again and again and again… until he has no voice left, and still he screams."

Sam shuddered, closing his eyes. "What must I do?" he asked.

The Gatekeeper stepped close, pressing its body against his. "Pass a test, Samuel. All you have to do is open a door."

It smiled, rising on its toes to kiss his lips. It tasted like blood, and Sam kissed back.

o0o

_Sam hadn't been to the crypt since he killed Jake, since Dean killed Azazel, since Dad vanished in a flash of light, since the Gate opened and a leaderless army streamed out._

_It was exactly as he remembered, and the Gate opened easily._

o0o

The Gatekeeper stepped from him, licking its lips. "You taste like power," it said. "Like life." It cocked its head again. "No one has ever attempted this, Samuel Winchester. Souls try clawing out all the time—no one ever claws their way in." It paused, seeming to weigh words. "I do not care about the politics of Hell, the endless war between demons, angels, and humans. I am the Gatekeeper. I merely keep the Gate."

Sam waited.

It nodded and continued. "I wish you luck. If any can succeed, it is you."

"Thank you," he responded.

The Gatekeeper vanished and Sam kept on.

After the throne room was a dark hallway. He saw no doors. The hallway connected to another large room, with another throne, this one the color of bone. He approached cautiously, but no one appeared; he slowly reached out, touched it—shuddering, he pulled back, disgusted. It _was_ bone.

"Beautiful, yes?" a sibilant male voice asked, a dark man dressed in a three-piece suit stepping before him. "It could be yours, Son of Hell."

Sam straightened to his full height, taller by a head. "I don't want it," he replied coldly. "I only want Dean."

The man smirked, teeth glinting. "Pass the test, Son of Hell. Open the door. Convince him to follow you—and he is yours."

Fire leaped in his black eyes and he vanished. Sam glanced around, senses straining, but he was alone again.

From far away came the sound of something roaring. He paused for just a moment before taking off in that direction.

Sam ran through a dozen rooms, down a dozen corridors, and there were no doors. Countless empty doorways, but not a single door for him to open. Finally he stopped—the roaring was on the other side of a red wall, and he could find no way in. He had come too far to be stopped—anger suffused him, and he threw himself at the wall, slamming his fists against it, screaming and kicking and cursing.

The wall didn't budge, but the roaring tapered off. He sank down, resting his forehead against the warm stone, and a few tears trailed along his cheeks.

He couldn't give up. He was in the Palace of Hell, and he'd been told what he had to do: find the door, open it, and convince Dean to follow him out.

He had to get up, continue the search. Find the door.

Sam stared at the wall. Find a door… or make one. Pressing his palms against the red stone, he stood. Sam hadn't used any of Azazel's curse since it failed to save Dean. But he had nothing left to lose. He was already in Hell, already alone. It couldn't really get any worse.

Sam focused on the wall, remembering back to how he felt when he saw Max kill Dean. There was no Azazel here to block the power now, and it flowed through him, coiled and burning.

He punched the wall with his mind and it buckled but held. He hit it again and again, and finally it collapsed inward, leaving the way clear. He stepped through.

It was the first throne room, with the dark throne. A woman sat on it, with pale hair and tanned skin, wearing a pant suit.

"Lilith," he guessed, moving forward.

"Sam," she replied. "Welcome." She smiled, and it wasn't pleasant at all. "You found a way in, passing the test." She held out a hand. "You may ask of me a single boon."

"Give me back Dean," Sam promptly said.

She settled her hands on her lap. "I like your brother, Sam. He is a fun creature." She canted her head, studying him. "I will allow you to speak with him. He must choose to follow you—or not."

Sam nodded.

"Take that corridor to its end," she told him, white eyes glowing, pointing to the left-hand hallway. "There your brother waits for you. If he agrees, I will cede all claim on him."

Swiftly he walked across the room and down the indicated corridor. He didn't take any of the branching pathways. Finally he came to a room with no other way out. In the corner stood a naked man, back to him.

"Dean?" he called softly, pausing at the entrance. The broad back was unmarked and the stance unfamiliar, but as the man turned, he saw that it _was_ Dean.

Dean's face stayed blank, no recognition changing his expression at all. He had no scars except the ones he'd died with. He looked at Sam with dead hazel eyes.

"Dean?" Sam said again. "It's me, Sam. I'm here to get you out." Dean stayed silent, unmoving, so he added. "It's Sammy."

He stepped forward, hands where Dean could clearly see them. "I'm sorry it's been so long, but I'm here now." Sam wanted to cry because there was no hint Dean knew him at all.

Dean's gaze flicked to his left hand, his right, then to Sam's eyes. He opened his mouth, as if to speak—then closed it again.

Sam's hope plummeted. After everything, he would fail, because this man wasn't Dean. He was too late; his preparations had taken too long.

His shoulders slumped, his head drooped. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "Dean, I am so _so_ sorry." Sam let himself sink to the cold floor. Compared to the rest of Hell, this room was freezing. Kneeling on it, looking up at his brother, Sam shivered. A year on Earth, Dean'd been gone… how did that translate in Hell?

Tears poured down; his chest heaved. Dean's expression didn't change.

"They all knew," Sam said through the sobbing. "They knew I was too late, and they sent me on anyway."

His tears splashed on the floor and Dean slowly knelt. With Sam slumped down, they were eye-to-eye. Dean reached out his hand to lightly touch Sam's cheek, rub at the tears.

Sam didn't move. Dean wiped away the water, looking intently at Sam's face. "I know you," he said quietly. "From before…"

His skin was warm, spreading heat and hope through Sam's body.

"Yes," Sam answered. "You're my brother."

"Brother," Dean repeated, looking up through his lashes.

Sam wanted to embrace him, to feel his heartbeat, but he wasn't sure how Dean would react, if it'd be too much too soon.

"You're from Above… here for me?" Dean's face was too closed, no emotion. His thumb kept rubbing circles on Sam's skin.

"Yes, Dean," he said. "I'm here to get you out. To bring you home."

"Why?" For a moment, something dark peered out of Dean's eyes, something hard.

"Because it's my fault you're here. You traded yourself for me." To Sam's ears, his voice sounded shredded.

"So you're here to lighten your guilt?"

"No!" Sam jerked back in horror, shaking his head. "You're too good to be in Hell! You deserve so much better than this."

Dean just looked at him for a moment, stretched out his hand again, fingers gently alighting on Sam's skin. "They said no one was ever coming." He moved forwards slightly, other hand reaching up to thread in the hair at the back of Sam's head. "They said I was alone forever." His eyes shifted black for one second.

"No, Dean!" Sam denied vehemently, refusing to recoil back from his brother. He gripped Dean's shoulders hard enough to bruise and shook him. "I'm here! It just took me so long, and I had to come up with the ritual and create the spell. I'd've been here every moment if I could, and I'm sorry. I'm so damned _sorry_."

Dean just stared at him, face blank, eyes a lifeless hazel.

Sam let him go, sinking down onto his haunches. He looked up at Dean, all hope gone. "I'm sorry," he said again.

"How did you get here?" Dean asked, sinking backwards and crossing his legs.

Sam told him, finishing with, "Lilith said if I convinced you to follow me, she'd let you leave." Sam shook his head. "But you don't remember me, you don't know me. I failed you, took too long."

Dean watched him regain composure. "How long has it been?"

"A year. It's been a year since you came down here." Sam rubbed his eyes.

"I'm tired." Sam looked up, met Dean's black gaze. After a moment, his eyes returned to hazel. "I can't rest down here." Dean deliberated then said, "I don't want to be here anymore."

Sam licked his lips. This wasn't his brother. Might never be his brother again. "You'll follow me out?"

Dean nodded. Sam rose to his feet and held out a hand; Dean gripped him and Sam pulled him up.

This man might never be his brother again, but he'd have a chance outside of Hell. "Dean," he whispered. "What's my name?"

Dean cocked his head, face blank again. Sam sharply missed his smile, his smirk, his sneer. "Brother," Dean responded. "Sam."

Sam had never wanted to be called _Sammy_ so much as right then.

He dropped Dean's hand and straightened, utilizing every ounce of his size. "Let's go," he said.

o0o

The Gate was still open; Dean looked up at the sky as Sam closed it and pulled out the Colt.

Dawn. Early summer, felt like—he'd been Below for half a year.

The Impala was where he'd left her, covered in dust and dirt. Sam walked towards her, calling over his shoulder, "Dean."

He paused when he saw the expression on Dean's face: pure, childlike wonder, bathed in sunlight, staring at the sky. Sam smiled.

Maybe Dean wasn't completely lost.


	28. untitled 2

Title: untitled

Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun.

Warnings: AU; character death

Pairings: John/Mary; Sam/Jessica

Rating: PG

Wordcount: 1690

Point of view: third

* * *

**Ending **

Someone screamed and John knew no more until he opened his eyes to Mary's smiling face and "Welcome home, baby."

**Entrapment**

"You're nothing to me, boy, do you understand?" it hissed to him with his father's voice, and he wanted to say, "Then kill me," but he couldn't move his mouth.

**Liar**

Sam told Jessica he loved her because he thought that's what she wanted to hear—and it was the 'normal' thing to do.

**Belief**

Even after everything, Sam believed Dad had Dean's best interests at heart—he didn't realize until it was too late that Dad cared only for killing the damned demon.

**Despair**

Until the end, Dean kept on hoping Dad would snap out of it, would fight the demon off.

**Perfection**

In one smooth motion Sam twisted, grabbed the gun, and fired; the bullet flew through the air and hit Dad in the heart, killing him and the demon both—too late.

**Angel**

The first time John looked at Mary, he thought the term _angelic_ should have her picture next to it in the dictionary.

**Demon**

"I've won," Sam's father's voice hissed, sneering at him, standing over Dean's prone form.

**Movie**

"I wanna see _Lord of the Rings_," the blonde announced to the room at large and Sam looked up from the petite brunette he was talking to.

**Fairytale**

"And they rode into the sunset, living happily ever after, Sammy," Dean whispered as he died.

**Promise**

Sam swore that every wound on Dean would be repaid in full—another oath he never kept.

**Butterfly**

Mary loved the Monarch; every spring she'd sit out in the garden and watch them—after, John couldn't stand the damned things.

**Protection**

Dean salted every door and window in every hotel room he ever stayed in; the four years Sam was gone, he salted twice as much, convincing himself it'd transfer.

**Ring**

He wanted to get her a diamond, but Jessica told him amethyst was her favorite.

**Poetry**

Dean loved horses and Sam didn't understand; once, after the fifth(out of ten) time he'd ridden one of the behemoths, he laughed, "They're poetry, Sammy."

**Blue**

Dean stared up at the sky, age ten, and wondered how he could keep Sam safe, keep Sam close, and get Sam all the dreams Dean knew he'd have one day.

**Picture**

Old, faded, and wrinkled—"Do you have a newer one?" Jessica asked and Sam shook his head, so she smiled and said, "It's beautiful, baby."

**Orion **

Dean taught Sam everything he knew about everything; he didn't know every single lesson stuck.

**Clock**

Time is something they never had enough of, John thinks at her grave, and lays the sunflower on the stone.

**Freedom**

Every new day Dean saw, he'd stand in the sun for a minute, eyes closed, face towards the sky.

**Scarlet**

"Ribbons of red, darling," it purred with Dad's voice, slicing him open some more, "ribbons of red trailing out."

**Choice**

The day after Dean died, Sam held a fully loaded gun to his head and very nearly pulled the trigger.

**Innocence **

Dean can remember when he used to check under the bed for presents because sometimes Mommy hid stuff for him; now he checks for monsters because one stole Mommy away.

**Cold**

The empty space where Dean used to reside leaves Sam freezing even in July.

**Experience**

By the time Sam turned thirteen he'd broken the law over a thousand times; Dean always had him beat, though, and with a smile.

**Confusion**

"I don't know what to do," Sam said desperately, a week after Jessica died, "Every time I close my eyes I see her and I can't—" Dean cut him off with a hug, to both their surprise, and Sam accepted the comfort like they were kids again.

**Golden**

"Not all who wander are lost," the wise-woman said and Dean scoffed, "Might as well be."

**Upside**

At least the demon died laughing—that's more than most can say.

**Damnation**

Dean once swore he'd go to Hell if it meant Sammy would get to Heaven.

**Salvation**

Sam once swore, after Dean lost more days because he was an overprotective jackass, that he'd tear down the walls of Paradise if Dean wasn't there.

**Burn**

_Where there's smoke there's fire_, Dean always said, and Sam's looking and looking—Dean's body is there and Dean's eyes are open, but no one's home and someone's screaming, and Sam thinks it's him, and he wants Dean to say, _Shut the fuck up, Sammy,_ but Dean doesn't, there's only Sam and blood and the keening wail—there's smoke but there's no fire, and Sam is utterly alone.

**Follow**

"C'mon, dude," Dean says, shoving Sam in front of him, "Go get her."

**Downside**

Everything has a price, Sam knows—those four years of normality cost Jess her life.

**Beginning**

Dean clutched Sammy tight in his arms and wanted Mommy and Daddy to come out of the house and pick him up and hug him until he woke up—because surely he was dreaming.

**Hero**

Heroes don't get happy endings, John knows—which doesn't bother him, since he's never thought of himself as one.

**Victory**

Bloodied and bruised, they helped each other back to the hotel room—even if Dean couldn't feel his left wrist and Sam's eyesight kept blinking on and off(probably something he should get checked out) they were alive.

**Glory**

"You know," Dean said conversationally to the corpse, gesturing to the dirty floor and the blood-splattered walls and the guts staining his pants, "they always leave this part out of the stories."

**Forever**

John touched the headstone, traced the letters, pressed his lips to her name, and whispered, "Forever—that's what we swore."

**Tiger**

Even though panthers were his favorite animal, Dean always had a special place for the king of cats—he thinks it has something to do with the last gift his mother gave him.

**Invincible**

Sam once thought Dean couldn't be hurt by anything; he eventually learned many things made Dean bleed, and that he made Dean bleed the most.

**Perfection**

Sam lightly ran his fingers through Jessica's hair, holding her close with his other hand, and thought, listening to her breathe, _This is perfect._

**Tarnish**

"You're beautiful, you know that?" the demon murmured with Dad's voice, and then it laughed harshly, "What I would give to tarnish you!"

**Nick**

It was a small little cut on his finger, just a scratch—and then the bitch got infected, and _damn_ it hurt like Hell.

**Memory**

"I can read his thoughts, little boy," it hissed from Dad's mouth, "and he blames you for _everything_."

**Quiet**

For one heartbeat everything was silence—and then a scream tore the air in two as he realized he was just… too late—after everything he was _too late_

**Dream**

Sam used to watch Dean sleep, wondering how such a hard, strong hunter could look so innocent, so _young_.

**Jealously**

Dean has memories of Mom, memories he holds close and sometimes shares, but only if Sammy's been real _real_ good.

**Killer**

Sam glanced over at the man and smirked; ten years down the road from that night, and he knows he's lost parts of himself—but the man's a bastard and Sam's in the mood to cause pain.

**Hope**

Standing in the sunlight, eyes closed and face towards the sky, Sam feels—peaceful, finally; maybe Heaven isn't beyond him, even after everything, and Dean's waiting.

**Rest**

John closes his eyes and doesn't see Mary on the ceiling—he sees Mary smiling, reaching out, and gently she touches his face.

**Light**

Sam throws his head back and screams—an explosion behind his eyes hurts more than anything except Dean's death and he knows it's all finally over.

**Brother**

"'bout time, Sammy."


	29. He put our lives so far apart

**Title**: He put our lives so far apart, we cannot hear each other speak

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Emily Dickenson.

**Warnings**: AU; spoilers for season two

**Pairings**: mentions of John/Mary

**Rating**: R

**Wordcount**: 2545

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

When Dean was sixteen, he shoved his right hand into a hot oven and gripped the metal shelf hard. Marissa turned around from the sink and gasped, then rushed forward, pulling him away and shutting the oven with a bang.

Marissa called an ambulance and the hospital kept him for overnight evaluation after she told the doctor what happened.

Dean didn't see why it mattered.

o0o

When Dean was six, his dad accidentally shot himself while cleaning guns. No one stepped forward to take Dean and his little brother Sammy in, so they went into the system. They were separated because of their ages and Sammy got adopted almost immediately. But Dean… he remembered Daddy. He remembered Mommy. And he didn't like people trying to take their places.

But finally, when Dean was eleven, Micah and Beth Marston took him in, gave him a chance. They already had two kids, David and Marissa, and Dean expected to be gone quickly.

Despite his problems and quirks, the Marstons kept him.

o0o

When Dean was twenty, Beth divorced Micah and left the country, moving to Sweden. Marissa went with her. David had long been gone. Micah drank himself into a stupor nearly every night, sacked out in front of the TV, ranting and crying in cycles.

Dean visited infrequently and eventually no longer went.

o0o

When Dean was twenty-two, he stopped a bus from hitting an old woman on the street. His eyes widened when he saw the greyhound careening out of control and the bag-lady moving nowhere quick enough.

His instincts flared, hands shooting out—the entire street froze. Dean rushed to her, pulling her off the road. Once they were clear, everything started up again.

After making sure the woman was okay, Dean fled.

o0o

Dean practiced. He learned the limits of his talent, the nuances and quirks.

On the eve of his twenty-third birthday, he woke up in an abandoned frontier town with a handful of people his age. Each of them, he soon learned, had talents—Kathy could read minds, Jack levitate, Mark move things with a thought, and Cassandra heal.

Jack attacked after the first night, going for Mark. Mark swiftly won, then turned on Dean. Dean froze him. "What're you gonna do?" Cassandra asked.

Dean licked his lips. "Can you heal Jack?"

She shook her head. "Only the living."

Dean studied Cassandra and Kathy. "Either of you suddenly feeling homicidal?"

They shared a look. "I hate pain," Cassandra said. "Anyone's."

Kathy moved quickly, but not faster than Dean. He froze her, too, and sighed. "Well, then."

o0o

When Dean was twenty-three, he witnessed a murder, then murdered two people. He escaped the town with Cassandra and they went their separate ways.

Before that, though, she told him of the dream, the yellow-eyed shadow telling her about its sick game.

"It wants a leader for some army," she said. "I think that's why they flipped."

Dean responded, "Well now, that's fucked up."

o0o

When Dean was twenty-five, he learned that Cassandra had died, burned herself out trying to heal a handful of children after a fire.

Dean wandered, never staying in one place long. He used his talent sparingly, not wanting to be traced and found. He hustled pool and took odd-jobs, spoke only when he had something to say.

He wasn't happy. He could honestly say he hadn't been happy since Mommy died.

o0o

When Dean was twenty-seven, he dreamed of that cursed town, the place where he became a killer. There were new people there, kids with talents like his.

Dean hurried. He'd failed Cassandra and the others, hadn't been quick enough. But these new ones… he might be able to save them.

o0o

Every night showed a different group, with one woman as the common denominator. She must be the new Jack.

Dean crept through the woods and watched her trick the newest collection—a black soldier, a goth chick, a short white kid, and a tall white kid. Dean wondered what to do; no one but the traitor seemed to have any idea what was going on.

During the night, he made his move, sneaking into the building the kids had holed up in. He froze them all and then bound the traitor.

"Smart boy," a deep voice crooned from the shadows. "My champion from the last game, who fled the crown and scepter." Dean turned slowly and a figure wreathed in flame stepped forward. "You weren't the favorite, I admit—have to say, I thought Mark would win, or Kathy." The speaker seemed to smile. "That's where you deviate, Dean. Your gift works on my other children and my army."

Dean backed up, eyeing the figure warily. He looked around for anything to use as a weapon. "You're that yellow-eyed shadow Cassandra mentioned."

The flames faded out to reveal a smirking man. "Azazel," he said.

Dean tried freezing him, but Azazel only smiled. "I gave you that talent, boy. I can take it away, easy as you breathe."

Clenching his fists, Dean glared. "What's the point?" he demanded. "And why haven't you ever appeared in _my_ dreams?"

Azazel shrugged. "Truth be told, Dean m'boy, I forgot about you. You're not supposed to exist." He spread his hands expansively. "You're an accident, kiddo. A mistake that shouldn't be."

Dean shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. "What's the point?" he asked again.

"You are new, Dean. I didn't plan for you, and your talents are growing." Azazel stepped forward, head canted, studying Dean like a science project. "If you tried, you'd learn that you can use the talents of those you killed." Azazel paused and turned, staring down at the sleeping kids.

The tall one was stirring, shifting in his sleep, even through the freeze. "His name is Sam," Azazel said softly. "He's my favorite of all. Has such potential…" Azazel glanced back at Dean. "Do you remember before the system, Deano?"

Dean didn't answer, staring down at the tall kid, Sam. "He shouldn't be moving," Dean murmured. "It's impossible."

Azazel laughed and vanished, his voice lingering long enough to say, "So are you, kiddo."

Sam's eyes blinked open and he yawned, sitting up. He looked around and saw Dean. "Who're you?"

"That girl's a traitor," Dean said, nodding towards her. "I can get ya'll out of here safely."

Sam frowned and rolled to his feet. "How'd you get here?"

Dean sighed. "I'm Dean Marston. I've been dreamin' about this place and that bitch, and I got here by car then walking."

Sam's face lit up. "You see things in dreams, too?"

He nodded. "I can also stop time; that's why none of 'em have woken up."

Sam looked around again. "Oh," he said. "I didn't even notice."

They stood in uncomfortable silence for a moment. Finally, Sam said, "I'm Sam Ferguson."

"Good for you." Dean rolled his eyes. "We need to get out of here, Sam. I've been here before and it won't end well."

Sam studied him. Dean tried to appear sincere, since he was. "Okay," Sam eventually murmured. Then, louder, "I believe you."

"Thanks." Dean's tone was just this side of sarcastic.

Sam smiled, a bright grin that filled the room. "So, whatta we do now?"

Dean thought for a moment. "Wake everyone but her up, get ya'll outta here."

Sam pursed his lips. "But won't it just start over? More of us for her to trick and kill?"

Dean met his eyes. He'd actually been planning to get the kids away and then come back to take care of her. But for this kid, who looked so innocent and goddamned _young_, to suggest it…

"Let the others wake up," Sam told him. "Andy, Lily, and Jake. We should make a group decision."

"Okay," Dean said, letting his hold on them go.

o0o

While the kids talked amongst themselves about whether or not to trust Dean, he considered Azazel's words.

An accident, a mistake. Able to use his powers on other 'gifted' children and whatever Azazel's army was. Not supposed to exist.

_Do you remember before the system, Deano?_

"We're not just gonna take some stranger's word and kill Ava!" the soldier, Jake, roared. "He showed up while we slept. How'd he even get here, Sam?"

Dean didn't glance over, just kept on staring at the wall, thinking.

Lily murmured something Dean didn't hear over the rushing in his head.

He'd had a brother once. And a father. A mother. Mommy taken by fire, Daddy by grief, and little brother… what had been his name? He'd been Dean's to watch out for, but Dean lost him to the system.

"Sam!" Jake yelled. "I'm not gonna let you kill her, especially on the word of some guy I don't know!"

Jake made a move toward Sam, raising his hand. Dean reacted without thought, Mark's long-dormant power flying from him and tossing Jake into the wall.

Only Sam looked at Dean, the other two focusing on Jake. Dean shrugged and stood, stretching.

"Here's the play, kiddies," he said. "I've lived this nightmare before. This Ava-girl won't stop till she's the last bitch standing." He met each of their gazes. "I'll lead the four of you outta here and come back—none of you need to see it. Forget about this place and go back to your lives."

Jake shook his head, forcing himself to his feet. "Can't let you do that."

Dean froze him. "Stupid kid," he muttered, looking at Lily and Andy. "What do ya'll say?"

"I have no problem leaving this freaky place," Andy said. "But I don't want anything to happen to Ava."

"Same here," Lily added.

"Fine." He turned to Sam, brow raised. Sam inclined his head and Dean said, "I'll bring these two. Stay close."

o0o

Dean went first, the only one who knew the way. Jake and Ava floated beside him, Lily and Andy hurried behind him, with Sam last.

All of his senses were sharp, pealed for any threat. Nothing moved in the woods, not even the wind.

"Freaky," Andy muttered.

"Quiet," Dean snapped, all out of patience. "Keep your mouth shut."

Andy grumbled something and Dean turned. "_This is no joke_," he hissed. Andy jerked back, eyes wide. "I want to save your stupid hide, for some reason I can't remember right now. But I'll leave your ass here if you don't stop making so much goddamned noise."

"Dean," Sam said softly. "Something moved."

Dean raised his gaze from Andy, listening. A little girl's voice giggled, high pitched and creepy. Dean shivered, trying to pinpoint the origin.

She giggled again and Dean decided to go on the offensive, freezing everything but the kids. "Let's get the fuck out of here," he growled and set off.

o0o

Once back at his car, Dean shoved Jake and Ava in the back. Lily and Andy squeezed in next to them; Sam took shotgun.

No one talked for the long miles back to civilization. Dean tried to think of something to do. Kill Ava, then what? Drop the kids off and hope they could go back to their lives like nothing happened? He doubted it'd be that easy.

"So now what?" Andy asked.

Dean took a deep breath, prepared to lash out again, but Sam said, "Maybe being away from that place is enough." He turned his head and told Dean, "Pull off up here and let's see."

With a shrug, Dean did. Lily and Andy piled out of the car and Dean dealt with the other two. "At the same time or separately?" he asked Sam.

"Same time," Sam decided.

Dean let them go. Ava was still asleep, but Jake lunged to his feet with a curse. "What the fuck?" he demanded, eyes wide and chest heaving.

"We're out of the ghost town, kid," Dean said. "And no one died. Happy?"

Jake's gaze latched onto him. "Who are you?"

Dean'd had just about enough. "I've done my part. I got all ya'll out of there. Go back to your lives, start over. I don't care."

"But—" Andy's voice cut off, Dean's glare silencing him.

"I'm done," Dean repeated, avoiding Sam's eyes.

o0o

When Dean was twenty-eight, he learned that Jake Talley died in a gas station shooting, Andy Gallagher in a plane crash, Lily Verne in a car accident, and Ava Wilson from a sleeping pill overdose.

There was no word about Sam Ferguson.

o0o

When Dean was twenty-nine, Azazel appeared to him in a dream. Azazel grinned at him, said, "I could give you the world, kiddo. All of creation would bow down before you, prostrate itself at your feet. Anything you want is mine to give."

Dean scoffed. "I doubt that very much, dude. If you were so powerful, you wouldn't need to play that sick game of murder and deception."

Azazel looked affronted. "I never deceived anyone, Dean. If anything, I was the first to ever tell the truth." Canting his head, Azazel licked his lips. "Dean, I can introduce you to your brother. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Meet up with baby brother again?"

Dean's mind froze and he blinked at Azazel. "You know about him?"

Azazel laughed. "I know everything about you, Dean. Your favorite food, your first fuck, your test scores from eighth-grade algebra—everything anyone could ever want to know about you, and more." He smirked again, holding out a hand. "Join me, Dean. Take what I offer. I can give you back your family, what you had before the system, before the Marstons."

Dean thought for a second, staring at Azazel's broad, dark palm. "You're afraid," he finally whispered. "I haven't chosen a side and you're afraid of that."

Azazel flinched and Dean woke up.

o0o

Dean didn't use his multiple talents. He took a job as a mechanic in a town on the outskirts of Atlanta. He dated a few women and listened to the old folk talk. He kept a low profile and tried to forget.

But when Dean was thirty-one, a long shadow fell over the town. Watching the news, Dean realized a shadow had fallen over the whole world.

Azazel appeared to him again, in his waking hours this time.

"Last chance, Dean," Azazel purred. "You're not my favorite, but you have potential." Azazel paused and Dean waited. "You're a survivor, kiddo. So surivive."

Dean closed his eyes. "Does that offer still hold?" he asked softly. "My brother…"

"Yes," Azazel told him. "It does."

o0o

Azazel's army was spread out in the Rockies. He led Dean through the forces with ease. "Your brother…" he said with relish. "Best gamble I ever took. He's surpassed my wildest expectations!" Azazel clapped Dean on the back. "I need to thank you for that, Dean."

Dean didn't know what he meant, but suspicion was building in him. "What's my brother's name?"

"Before the system," Azazel drawled, "your last name was Winchester."

A door popped into existence in the rock. "And behind this door," Azazel said with a grin, "is my general, the most powerful and gifted of all my children."

Dean glanced at him, hesitant now that the time had come.

"Well, go on, then, son," Azazel prodded. "Open the door. Your brother waits."

Dean bit his lip. "I didn't save him, did I? I didn't save any of them."

Azazel smiled. "If it's any consolation, you tried."


	30. it exhausts me to watch you

**Title**: it exhausts me to watch you

**Disclaimer**: the Winchesters aren't mine. title from Sylvia Plath

**Warnings**: pre-series; AU

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 4480

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

His first solo hunt, and he's already made a mistake. There're four instead of two—Mama Nasty, Papa Nasty, and then Baby Nasty One and Baby Nasty Two.

Papa Nasty went down, a consecrated iron knife in his left eye, but Mama Nasty is still in the burrow with her spawn.

Dad's back in Oregon with laryngitis and Sammy has finals. It was supposed to be an easy hunt, two young black dogs out making their own pack.

Dean has no idea what they are. Hybrids, maybe. Something new, or maybe something very old. But he has to get them before going home. They've already killed half a dozen people, two of them kids.

He sure wishes Dad were here.

Mama Nasty growls. Dean sinks lower behind the fallen log. She knows exactly where he is, but refuses to leave her—pups? Kits? No idea what to call those things.

Papa Nasty looked like a mix of a goat, snake, and timber wolf. Mama Nasty looks like a snake, deer, and panther. Disgusting, and smells like rotting corpses.

Definitely not an easy kill, like two newbie black dogs would've been. Papa Nasty's claws had caught his right arm, and the rips are starting to burn. But if he leaves for doctoring, Mama Nasty will move the nest, and hide it so well Dean might never find them again.

The closest thing Dean can think of is the Chimera from Greek mythology. He can't remember how the hero killed it, but consecrated iron seems to work just fine.

If he can get Mama Nasty out of the burrow to deal with, the young will be easy. But she's not leaving them, just growling and snarling.

Damn, his arm hurts. The pain is spreading all the way up his shoulder, down to his fingers. Papa Nasty has been dead for an hour and Dean's right arm is all but completely useless.

Shit. He needs to get help, have his arm seen to, before he loses it for good. But he can't go—Mama Nasty and the young will vanish.

He closes his eyes, slipping down to his haunches. He didn't lose much blood, thankfully, but Papa Nasty's claws must've been poisoned or something. Damn monster.

Mama Nasty roars. Dean raises his head and peers over the log just in time to see her lunge out of the burrow, straight for him. He tosses himself back, scrambling for cover.

But this is her territory. She knows every nook and cranny. And he's already weakened.

Her fangs are really big and really sharp. She gnaws on his right shoulder and he slams the knife into her neck. Mama Nasty keens and stills, slumping down on him. She weighs at least a hundred pounds, more pressure on his injured side.

But he's won. All that's left are the two babies and the five mile trek to his car and the hour drive back to Dad and Sammy.

No trouble. If he could move, it'd be no trouble at all.

o0o

There's whimpering. It seeps into his fever-dream of planes falling from the sky. Someone—besides him—is in trouble. Dean forces his eyes open. Below his neck, his entire right side is numb.

That can't be good. But at least it doesn't hurt anymore. Always look on the bright side.

Dean rolls over slowly, glacially gets to his feet. He's nowhere near steady, but his legs aren't hurt. It takes all his willpower to step towards the burrow, the iron knife still clenched in his left fist.

Deal with the babies and go home. Deal with the babies and he'll be fine.

The whimpering is coming from the burrow. Maybe they have a victim in there, someone he needs to save.

Outside the burrow, Dean drops to his knees. His right arm hangs, more than useless, dead weight throwing off his balance. There's rustling in the burrow, something moving around, chirping and clucking.

Dean leans close, peering in, but it's too dark to see. Something shuffles and he reaches in; tiny fangs pierce the fleshy part between his thumb and forefinger, but he grabs, dragging a Baby Nasty out. It snaps but doesn't seem to have poison yet, so Dean wraps his fingers around its neck and twists.

It dies easily, fragile bones broken, and Dean feels like he killed a child.

Which he did. He stares at Baby Nasty, no bigger than a kitten, snake tail, wolf head, goat body, wolf feet. It's a monster, ugly and stinking, and he feels so much remorse it burns.

There's still another one, a baby monster he needs to kill. He wants to vomit.

The second Baby Nasty shuffles out. It looks like a miniature Mama Nasty, so he decides it must be a girl.

She peers up at him with green eyes in a black furry face, black body built like a fawn's, twining black snake tail. She's a monster, dangerous to every human, and he needs to kill her.

She chirps at him, slowly inching close, crouched down. Dean reaches for her; she's small enough to hold in one hand, barely filling his palm, so easy to kill. Her tail wraps around his palm, so long it goes around three times. He needs to kill her. Her fur is soft and silky; she smells like a rotting corpse.

She meows, nuzzling his palm.

Dean stands, still holding her. The poison must be addling his mind. Dad won't let him keep her. Dad will kill her. Which he should. She's a human-eating monster, made piecemeal of other things.

o0o

It takes him hours to reach the Impala; by the end, he's nearly passed out, almost dead on his feet. The baby is curled up in his hand and after he drags himself into the car, he deposits her shotgun.

For the first time, he remembers his cellphone. He leans into the back, digging around for it; he bites his lip to hold in a groan of pain. The numbness is gone and his right side is throbbing again.

He can't find the phone.

Baby Nasty meows as she wakes up, blinking her huge green eyes at him. She doesn't smell as bad as she did, so he must be getting used to it.

He slumps back against the seat, falls into a deep blackness.

o0o

Dean wakes to daylight and his Baby Nasty whining. "You must be hungry, huh, girl?" he slurs. With great difficulty, he reaches into the back again, grabbing a duffle. He digs in it for the peanut M&Ms, ripping open the bag. He tosses it to her, the candy spilling out and raining down on her. She snaps one up and sucks on it, staring at him. She cocks her head and he watches her swallow.

She eats another one. He chuckles as she begins gobbling them down. "Knew you were a smart one," he says, whole body aching and burning. Whatever poison the Parent Nastys put in him, it works slow, which sucks almost as much as it's awesome. He might be able to make it home, but the pain will drag on and on…

He sighs, says, "I really should name you." But if he names her, it'll hurt just that much more when Dad kills her. Which he will—Dad won't be swayed by her cuteness, or her softness, or those planet-sized eyes she's turning on him for more food.

Dean runs his thumb down her nose and she jumps, paws scrabbling for purchase, tiny claws digging into his flesh. She sucks on his knuckles, tongue lapping at his skin. He waits a few moments before gently taking his hand away, starting the car. He has an hour drive ahead of him and he wants nothing more than to sleep, let the poison softly steal him away.

But Dad. Sammy. They're waiting for him. They need him. This is his first hunt alone, and he won't shame Dad by letting it defeat him.

o0o

The hour drive takes almost seven, and he doesn't have the energy to walk upstairs when he finally makes it. The kit sleeps most of the way, waking only when they cross the county line. Dean parks then slumps over the wheel.

His right side is back to being numb. The poison is finally moving over to burn his left arm. His head is murky, his breathing shallow.

Dean knows his body is steadily shutting down, one system at a time.

Baby Nasty clambers into his lap, chirping. He has no food for her, no energy to even pet her. Both arms are useless and he can't feel anything, all sensation slowly sinking away.

_Bye, Sammy_, he thinks. _Sorry, Dad_.

Baby Nasty chirps again, and Dean—

o0o

Wetness on his face. Pressure on his right shoulder. Warmth all over. Rumbling above him—comforting sound.

Hand on his forehead, moving down to his cheek.

"—c'mon, man, this attempt for attention is beneath you." The fingers curl around his jaw. "If you don't wake up, I'll tape over all your music with… with ABBA! That'll show you, won't it? No more Metallica or Led Zeppelin. Just ABBA. And I'll dye your hair lavender, put pink sparkles on the Impala. Dad'll even help me. Right, Dad?"  
_Sammy._

"You hear him, son," a deeper rumbling says. "You don't wake up, Dean, and I'll be following your brother's orders."

ABBA? Lavender hair? _Pink sparkles_? They wouldn't dare.

"C'mon, Dean, kick my ass for even thinking about it."

The pain is gone. And the numbness. His body aches, is tired, but feels… whole.

"… bitch…" he slurs, eyes barely slitting open. "… traitor…"

Sam and Dad chuckle, bone-deep relief in the sounds.

"How you feelin'?" Dad asks.

Dean closes his eyes again, unable to think up a lie. "Tired."

"Sleep will help with the healing," Dad says. "Don't worry—we'll be here when you wake up."

He sinks back under to them talking quietly, and Sam's hand never leaves his face.

o0o

Dean wakes up really having to piss. He feels well-rested and healthy, so he rolls out of bed and hurries to the bathroom.

His energy sags swiftly, he learns, and once he's dealt with the most pressing issue, Dean looks in the mirror above the sink. He's pale, freckles standing out sharply on his skin. His hair is too-long, greasy. He's shirtless; where the Parent Nastys got him is still jagged and puffy. Healing, though. He moves his shoulder and there's a residual ache, some stiffness, but he'll be fine.

He's tired again, so he slumps back on the bed, is asleep in moments.

o0o

Next time he wakes up, Sam's sitting cross-legged beside him on the bed. "Hungry?" he asks.

"Hell yeah," Dean answers.

"Shower," Sam says, making one of his lesser bitch-faces. "Then food."  
o0o

Dad's fully healed, too, laryngitis gone. He makes pancakes and Dean eats three before feeling like vomiting. Dad and Sam make small talk—something about school and a Mrs. Monroe who has it in for the seniors. Dean doesn't pay attention, trying to keep his pancakes down.

Sam offers him a glass of grape juice. Dean drains it and his stomach settles.

After breakfast, Dad pins him to a chair with a look. "Tell me, son," he begins. "What happened?"

Dean wants to ask where his Baby Nasty is, but he knows Dad killed her. And Dad was right to do it—she was a monster. A man-eater. Hell, one day she'd have poisonous fangs and claws, be the size of an extra-large wolf, and eat people for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She _had_ to be put down.

He tells Dad everything, ending with when he pulled up outside the apartment, too exhausted to do anything but die. He doesn't meet Dad's eyes or look at Sam. He screwed up, almost got himself killed. He has no clue how he's still alive.

Dad says, "I'm proud of you, Dean."

"What?" Shock raises Dean's head.

"I'm proud of you," Dad repeats. "You had bad information and you still dealt with the hunt, killed the threat. I couldn't have done it better."

Dean stares at him. "But I—" he starts.

Dad cuts him off. "But nothing, Dean. You did good, kid. Now go rest."

Dean looks at Sam, but all his little brother does is smile.

So Dean goes rest—fucking tired _again_—collapsing back on his bed and sleeps.

o0o

This time, he wakes to meowing by his ear, small paws on his neck. He doesn't move, assessing the situation.

Then he realizes it must be his Baby Nasty and he reaches up to grab her, rolling over to sit up.

She's quite alive, those same eyes blinking up at him. She doesn't smell at all, her fur is dusty, and Dean hugs her to his chest.

She meows plaintively, adding a chirp at the end. She must be hungry. Dean slips out of bed, still cradling her, and pads to the kitchen. She looks around curiously. He talks softly, just random thoughts that pop into his head. Her ears swivel to listen.

The kitchen is empty; it's night out. The microwave says 3:00. Dean digs in the fridge and finds lunchmeat. He sets Baby Nasty on the counter and gets down a plate, ripping open the ham to put on it. Baby Nasty sniffs at the meat then gobbles it, looks for more.

The whole package of ham is gone before she's satisfied. He fills her a bowl of water, which she drains. Dean rubs her head, behind her ears, down her nose. She preens, tail catching his wrist.

He hasn't had a chance to really look at her yet, but he studies her, there in the florescent kitchen-light.

Baby Nasty is the size of a small kitten. Her head and feet are like a kitten's. But her body is a baby deer, just much littler and completely black. Her tail is like a snake, also black, twice as long as her body. She should be ugly, like her parents and brother were. But Dean thinks she's adorable.

"What the hell is _that_?"

He's jerked back to the real world by Dad's stupefied voice. Dean looks over, pulling her close. "This is Baby Nasty," he answers, turning to the side to shield her with his body. "She's _mine_."

Dad stares at him, then her, then back at Dean. "No," he says, shaking his head. "If she's that survivor of the nest you told me about, then you know she has to die."

Dean tries stepping back, but he hits the counter. "Dad." Baby Nasty purrs against his chest. "We can raise her. She'll help us!"

Dad looks disappointed. "You know better."

Dean swallows. Yeah, he does.

His hands tighten around her; she squeaks, struggles in his grip. "Can't we let her go?" he asks desperately. "Give her a chance?"

Dad's smile is gentle. "No, son." He steps forward. "Give her here, Dean. I'll take care of this."

Dean can't. She trusts him.

"Dean," Dad says again, command in his tone. "Give her to me."

"Dad, _please_." Baby Nasty curls up in his grip, settling for a nap.

Dad steps even closer, thunderclouds on his face, anger tightening his body. Dean slips back along the counter. He has no idea what he's doing, why he's disobeying Dad. Maybe the poison did addle his mind. Maybe Baby Nasty has cast some sort of spell.

Maybe a thousand things that don't matter, because Dad will kill Baby Nasty and then kick his ass.

"Wait!" Sam shouts, getting between them. He's taller than both but still a beanpole; one shove from Dad and he'd be out of the way.

But Dad pauses.

"Maybe Dean's right, Dad," Sam says, back to Dean, face right in Dad's. "I've been researching, ever since Dean got back—there are a few cases where one of these things was trained."

It's complete bullshit. Dean can read it in Sam's voice.

Dad just looks at Sam, standing still. He listens as Sam continues, "Just give me a little more time, so I can look a couple of things up. Just give me that, Dad. Please."

Dad gazes past Sam, meeting Dean's eyes. Dean doesn't recognize the look on his face. "Two days," he says, turns, and walks out the kitchen.

Dean slumps down, leaning on the counter, all strength deserting him. He's never disobeyed Dad, never fought him for anything, never since he was ten years old. He closes his eyes, fingers stroking Baby Nasty's spine.

"What do I do, Sammy?" he asks quietly.

Sam leans beside him. "Convince Dad you can train her." He looks at Baby Nasty with wide, awed eyes, reaches out to touch her.

Dean itches to jerk her away, but he refrains. Sammy won't hurt her.

In her sleep, Baby Nasty preens against Sam's finger.

o0o

The two days pass swiftly. Dad is almost never home. Sam spends nearly all his time at the library, doing the research he told Dad he'd already done. Dean's glad it's the weekend.

He feeds and bathes Baby Nasty, talking to her all the while. She purrs and chirps at him, meows and clucks.

Dean still can't bear to name her. He whistles and snaps and clucks, and she comes to him, ears pricked and snake-tail twining behind her. She looks at him with her large eyes, and he knows that he has to keep her or he might just die.

What he doesn't know is _why_.

o0o

Sam returns at nine pm when the library closes. Dad pulls up outside and quietly steps in the apartment. Dean scoops up Baby Nasty and waits at the kitchen table.

"Well?" Dad says to Sam, sitting beside Dean.

Sam shoots a quick look to Dean, then straightens and faces Dad head on. "They're like dogs, sir. Can be trained, and are often extremely loyal to one person."

"You're sure?" Dad asks. Dean almost thinks he hears relief in Dad's voice.

Sam doesn't hesitate. "Absolutely."

o0o

Dean sets her on the bed beside him, puts his hand on her tiny flank. She curls up, tail wrapping around his palm.

"You need a name," he says. "Something strong… but pretty." Her ears flick. "Maybe Greek or Roman…" He studies her, running through his mythology. "Artemis?" She yawns. "Diana, Selene, Venus, Pandora, Leda, Leto—"

"Dude," Sam says. "Some of us have school tomorrow."

"Sorry." Dean grins down at her. "Sammy needs his beauty rest, girl," he whispers.

From the other bed, Sam huffs in mock exasperation.

Baby Nasty rolls over, showing her soft belly. Dean trails his finger down it. "Something regal," he murmurs. She bats at his hand. Part of him wants to call her _Mary_, but Dad would never ever go for that.

He's almost asleep when the name comes to him.

"Caliph," he whispers. "Cally."

She meows and burrows under his chin.

o0o

He feeds her Lucky Charms the next morning.

"Get her off the table," Dad orders, entering the kitchen.

Cally chirps and hops down. Dean sets her bowl in front of her. "I named her," he tells Dad. "Caliph."

Dad flicks him a glance. "I truly hope you know what you're doing, Dean."

Dean smiles at him.

o0o

Sam has school and Dad's got a hunt lined up. Dean's still regaining his strength, tiring easily, so they tell him to stay home. He takes Cally into the den and drags a string by her paws. She crouches and pounces, over and over.

Dean whiles away half the day playing with her. He can nearly forget what he did, killing her parents and brother. He watches her twist and spin in the air, sinewy like the cat of her feet and head, and thinks, _I'm sorry, Cally. You'd probably be happier with your own kind._

Clear as daylight, he hears a little girl say _I like it here_.

He jumps, falling over backward, and looks around. "Hello?"

_Humans have good food_, the little girl continues. _And don't smell bad_.

Dean stares down at Cally. She grins up at him.

"Is that… you?" he asks, feeling like he's lost his mind.

She jumps, digging her baby claws into his sleeve and climbing up his arm. _I like it here_, she repeats. _With you and your clan. Even the alpha. You're home_. She nuzzles into his cheek, purring. _Don't send me away._

"I don't think I could bear it," he says honestly. "But there will be rules."

She hops off his shoulder, landing with pure feline grace before toppling over. She sits up, tail wrapping around her haunches, and waits, blinking slowly.

Dean sighs. "Whenever your venom comes in, you can't use it."

_Not on __**anybody**__?_ Her tone reminds him of Sam as a little kid, when Dad punished him by taking away his favorite toy.

"If I say it's okay, or they're threatening one of us—Sam, Dad, you, me. But only then."

He thinks for a moment. "You'll probably only be able to go out at night, when you get bigger. Okay, Cally? You don't look enough like any normal animal."

She raises her front right paw and licks it, brushing the side of her face. _Those aren't so bad, _she muses. _Can we play now?_

"Will you talk to Dad or Sam?"

She stands, stretching out her tiny front legs and arching her spine, yawning. _I don't think I can,_ she says. _But you took me, loved me, named me. I am bonded to you_. She sounds confused. _You're_ _not like me, but you named me. We're bonded._ He scoops her up, holding her to his chest with one hand. _I don't think that's supposed to happen, Dean_.

"It'll be alright, Cally," he promises. He picks up the string, dangles it in front of her. She squirms out of his grip, lunging for it.

He laughs and moves it out of her reach.

o0o

Dean decides to make spaghetti that night. Sam and Dad, for some reason he can't really fathom, love spaghetti. Dean can eat it, but it's not his favorite. Cally watches from the doorway, asking a question every few heartbeats. Finally, to head her off, he just scoops her up and puts her on his shoulder, explaining what he's doing every step of the way.

She finds cooking fascinating. _But why are you doing that?_ she asks, peering over the pot of sauce from his shoulder.

"Because it tastes better to us," he says. "And is healthier, probably."

The front door swings shut; Cally jumps down and takes off, meowing.

Dean shakes his head, stirring the sauce. He puts the top on the pot and meets Sam in the kitchen doorway. Sam's holding Cally with one hand and stroking her spine with the other.

"Spaghetti?" Sam says, eyebrow raised.

Dean shrugs.

"Well," Sam tells him. "Smells good."

o0o

Dad arrives just before they sit down. Dean serves him a plate and Dad slips into the chair at the head of the table.

Cally's crouched between Dean's feet, keeping up a steady stream of chatter no one else can hear. She's just talking to talk, not waiting for him to respond.

Dean asks about Dad's hunt and Sam's day at school. They mainly carry on the conversation and he just listens. It's barely six, but he's already worn out.

After they eat, Dad sends him off to bed. "We'll deal with the clean-up," Dad tells him. "Just rest."

"I'm not a baby," he grumbles, pride dinged and too tired to think better of it. "I made the mess, so I should clean it up."

Dad cocks his head. "That was not a suggestion, son."

Dean wants to bristle, but he really is worn to the bone. "Yes, sir," he says. Cally takes off and hops onto his bed.

Dean falls facedown beside her, not even bothering to take off his pants or shirt. _Your alpha makes you grouchy?_ she asks, settling on his head.

He reaches up and gently grabs her, rolling over and placing her on his chest.

_Only sometimes_, he thinks to her, wondering if it'll work. _But he knows what's best._

_Alphas always do, _she responds.

Dean doesn't want to ask. She's still just a baby, and might not understand. _Are_ _you sure you wanna stay with me?_ He pauses. _I mean… I killed your family._

Her claws gently dig into his shirt, into his skin. _You've only been good to me, Dean. _She sounds older, much older, peering into his eyes. _You named me._

"Yeah," he whispers. "I did."

o0o

Weeks pass. Cally triples in size, then her growth slows. She eats anything Dean gives her, but won't touch food from Dad or Sam. Dean goes on an easy hunt with Dad, leaving Cally in Sam's care.

Dean learns when Cally's venom comes in because he takes her out one night and she catches a rat. Almost instantly after she claws it—a small, quick swipe—the rat swells up and dies.

He stares. _That didn't happen to me_, he thinks. _Damn_.

Cally blinks up at him, then gulps the rat down. _Dean?_

He doesn't move, mentally back in that forest, back burning and gasping, back sure he'd die before he saw Sam and dad again.

A small chirp. _Dean? I'm sorry—come back._

"Cally," he says. "How potent is your poison?"

She hesitates, brushing against his legs. _As potent as I want it to be. I can inject it by choice. I'll never hurt you, or our clan._

_I know, baby, _he tells her, pulling her up into his arms_. I just…_

She licks his chin. _You named me, Dean._ Purring, she settles against him, her head beneath his jaw. _You fed me and gave me warmth. We are bonded._

He heads back to the apartment, her tail twining around his arm. "What does that mean?" he asks. "Bonded?"

She thinks for a moment before responding. _My kind bond for life, Dean. Our bonded name us and we name our bonded—we are nothing until we meet._

He freezes; she rears up to meet his eyes. "But you didn't name me," he says. "So what does that mean?"

She shrugs, tail swishing. _In my memories, nothing like this has happened._ She grins, hopping out his grip to the ground. _We're new, Dean_.

He sighs. "Great."

Cally looks back over her shoulder. _I'll take care of you, Dean, and our clan. Don't worry._

_A month ago, I could hold you in one hand, sweetheart._ He smirks. _Forgive me for doubting._

She twitches her left ear, tail lashing, and stalks away from him. _See if I use my venom to help you._

Dean laughs, walking quickly to catch up. "Sorry, Caliph."

She keeps her face turned away from him. He leans down to flick her ear and leaps forward. She hisses and follows.

They play tag all the way home.


	31. long trip alone, over sand and stone

**Title**: long trip alone, over sand and stone

**Disclaimer**: not my characters. just for fun. Title and lyrics excerpted from "Long Trip Alone" by the _adorable_ Dierks Bentley.

**Warnings**: Spoilers for everything. Character torture and death. AU. Unapologetic run-on sentences. Rampant overuse of _and_. Possible out-of-characterness.

**Pairings**: mentions of John/Mary. Wincest could be implied, for those sick puppies who enjoy that sort of thing.

**Rating**: Rish, I guess.

**Wordcount**: 2942

**Notes**: I like Mary. And Dean. And Sam, come to think of it.

**More notes**: This started out as a drabbleish Dean character-study. And mutated. Then grew.

**Dedication**: _smilla02_(LJ) for awesomeness and _iamstealthyone_(LJ) for coolness and _SadeLyrate_(here) for sweetness and _fairykween13_(here) for listening to my rambles.

_

* * *

_

_So maybe you could walk with me a while  
Maybe I could rest beneath your smile  
Maybe I could feel right beside you 'til I'm home  
'Cause it's a long trip alone_

o0o

He's waiting, alone, waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for that blow he can't avoid, waiting for the claw that's too fast, waiting for the ground to finally win when they tangle.

He's waiting, alone.

o0o

He remembers, aching, bleeding, when he wasn't. When he had a mommy and a daddy and a baby brother Sammy. He remembers hugs and kisses and chocolate chip cookies homemade, hot from the oven. He remembers helping Mommy cook and making a mess and Mommy laughing as he helped clean up. He remembers chasing Daddy around the house, playing hide-and-seek. He remembers holding Sammy, gently, securely, like Mommy taught him. He remembers Sammy's baby smile and Sammy's baby laugh and the way Sammy looked at him, with baby blue eyes that soon turned emerald.

He remembers November and fire and Mommy's scream, Sammy's cry.

He's waiting, now, waiting alone for what began that night to finally end, finally be over, finally let him go.

He's waiting, aching, bleeding, alone.

o0o

Mommy died for Sammy and Daddy died with Mommy.

Dad died for him, to bring him back from death, and an ache in his soul grows steadily by the hour.

What's dead should stay dead, but he's walking and talking and hurting and fighting, doing the only thing he knows how to do, and it hurts, it hurts so _much_, a steady throb in his chest that no amount of painkiller can get rid of, because the hurt isn't physical.

What's dead should stay dead, and Sam(my) watches like a hawk, trying to keep him from proving that true.

And he's waiting, alone, because Sam can't know.

Sam won't let him go.

o0o

Mommy died in November and Daddy died with Mommy.

Dean died that night, too. Now he can never become what he would have been. Sam, though, his potential was still there. He didn't really lose anything that night, nothing he'd remember having. He had no memory of Mommy or Daddy, of chocolate chip cookies hot from the oven, of hide- and-seek throughout the entire house. He couldn't remember, so for the longest time he didn't regret.

But then he saw families at the park, heard the kids at school, and hated what he didn't have.

Dean, though… Dean ached and bled for what he couldn't give his brother. Dean tried his best, but could never give enough.

o0o

And he's waiting, alone. Dad is dead, and Mom, and Death comes for him again, Death he'd spoken to but not fully escaped. He can hear Sam yelling his name on the other side of the forest, can imagine the gun clenched tight in Sam's grip.

_Hello, Dean,_ Death says, and he's waiting for that blow he can't dodge.

"Tessa," he replies, giving Death a nod, and then he hears the snarling from behind him.

_Dean_, Death says again and the wendigo shrieks. Dean flinches and turns, searching for the monster with his eyes, but the darkness is complete and there is no moon.

He hears Sam scream his name, but there is no pain—only anger and fear. Sam(my) isn't hurt, only pissed and scared.

The wendigo snarls and Dean feels claws rip across his back. His mouth opens but no sound comes out. He spins around, raising the flare gun, but it's batted from his grip. The wendigo chatters and flicks its claws at his face, leaving scores on his cheek. He sucks in a breath and falls to his knees, Tessa falling with him.

_Let go, Dean_, Tessa whispers.

"Will Sammy be alright?" Dean gasps, hands scrambling for the gun.

He can hear the wendigo moving around him, still chattering to itself.

_I'm not here for him_, Tessa answers. _I've just come for you._

Dean's fingers find cold metal and pause. He closes his eyes, focusing on the wendigo's noise, shutting out everything else. The wendigo rips open skin on his chest and stomach, and he raises the gun, eyes still shut.

Sam's voice is nearer and Dean pulls the trigger. The wendigo roars and screams, and Dean's waiting, alone with Death and a monster, and fire burns too close, but Dean's freezing, and he collapses back, staring up at the endless sky, trying to pick out the stars.

_Come with me_, Death whispers, trailing her fingers across his lips. _Rest, Dean. I know how tired you are. _

Sam shrieks his name, but Dean can't move, can hardly breathe, can only watch the stars fade.

_Come with me_, Death whispers again and Sam's voice drops away.

o0o

Mommy and Daddy are dancing in the kitchen, twirling and laughing, and Dean watches from the doorway.

Mommy catches sight of him and pulls away from Daddy, smiling. "Dean," she says, kneeling in front of him, "you're goin' to be a big brother."

Dean blinks up at her before whooping and throws his arms around her neck.

Daddy rushes over and picks him up, spinning him around; Dean's laughter fills the room.

Mommy watches, exuberant, and Dean knows the future is a bright place.

o0o

_Come with me_, Death asks, and Dean's too tired to fight.

The stars twinkle and shimmer, and Dean's waiting alone. He's weary and frightened and too cold to care anymore.

Tessa stands over him, smiling down, and she says, "Come with me, Dean," offering a hand.

"Okay," he rasps and his eyelids flutter closed.

o0o

For a brief moment, the pain recedes and he sees Mommy again, Mommy with her golden hair cascading down her back and her lips curved in a gentle smile and the hazel eyes he inherited glistening with hope.

"Dean," she says softly, reaching with one hand. "Dean, go back."

"Momma," he replies, voice worn and weary, "I'm just too tired anymore."

She touches his shoulder, wraps her arms around him. "Dean," she murmurs, curling into him, resting her head on his chest. "So much has happened and you can't let go." She pulls back, tilts her head to meet his eyes. "Are you willing to leave Sam?"

His arms tighten and he flinches away, can't keep her gaze. "No," he answers. "But, how…"

Her smile is sad and broken. "So much has happened to keep you alive, Dean. You can't just give up." She raises her head, softly kisses his cheek.

"Death can't be defeated, Momma," he says and lowers his chin to rest on the top of her head.

"Yes," she responds. "Yes, it can."

He can smell fire for an instant, smell smoke wafting on the still air. He tries to pull away but she holds on. "You were never waiting alone, Dean. I've been with you since you were conceived. For nine months you grew in me and then I delivered you to the world. For nearly a quarter of a century, ever since I told you about Sammy, you've been his." Keeping one arm around him, she raises her other hand to touch his cheek. "He's begging you to come back. And if you don't…" Her smile drops away and her eyes shine. "I didn't just die for Sammy, love. I knew what I did that night, and I chose to continue on. Marshall Hall didn't know his life was to be traded for yours, but if he had… if everything was made clear to him like it was to me, he would have chosen _you_ to live." Tears spill out of her eyes, down her face. "And John…" She lowers her head and leans into him.

"Momma," he breathes and hears Sam's voice.

"Go back, Dean. Death wants you but cannot take you, not yet." She raises both hands to cradle his face, pulls his head down to rest their foreheads together. "I won't let her take you."

"Okay," he answers and smiles her own broken smile.

o0o

The sky is dark, far away. The stars shimmer and he feels a tremor in his body. He hears Sam's voice, a low murmur, but can't make out the words—only the tone. Angry, terrified, despairing—Dean hates that Sam sounds that way, so he tries to speak, tries to reassure his little brother everything will be fine.

"… Sammy…"

"Dean," Sam sobs, "C'mon, please stay…"

And Dean realizes that Sam was waiting alone, waiting for Dean to live or die, unable to do anything but plead and pray. So Dean forces open his eyes, blinks and whimpers, hears Sam sob in relief. "Dean," he says, leaning over his brother, touching Dean softly. "Dean, thank god."

"Sammy…" he tries, the word barely there. "… so cold…" He attempts sitting up, rolling over, filling his lungs with fresh air, but nothing hears his command, nothing answers his plea.

Sam sniffs, brushes his hand across Dean's forehead. "How bad are you hurt?" he asks and Dean hears the tears in his voice.

"Bad," Dean whispers.

Sam looks into his eyes for a moment and Dean can't hide the truth.

_I'm dyin', Sam, and you can't stop it. _

_What's dead should stay dead. _

Dean can't move, can't stop him, so Sam puts one arm under Dean's shoulder and the other under Dean's knees, and picks his big brother up.

There's a few hours till sunrise and no moon, and Sam finds a way out of the forest because there is no other option. He keeps up a steady stream of comments, says whatever comes to mind, tries to get Dean responding, but Dean just gasps and breathes. Sam stumbles a couple of times and Dean, barely clinging to consciousness, whimpers.

Sam feels the blood, sticky and cooling and slick, and knows Dean needs care _right now_, but there is no signal and he doesn't have the tools.

Finally he reaches the edge and sees the Impala and sprints to her, carefully putting Dean in the back, shoving away all thoughts of the last time Dean rode there.

_They don't need you. Not like you need them. _

"Dean," Sam calls and his eyelids flutter.

"Sammy?" His voice is threadbare, weak, and it hurts Sam to hear him.

"Hold on, okay, Dean?" Sam begs. "_Please_, Dean."

Dean doesn't respond.

o0o

Looking back later, Sam doesn't remember the drive to the hospital. He doesn't remember carrying Dean into the ER and screaming for help. Doesn't remember the names they used or how he hit his knees after Dean was wheeled away, how he begged God for anything, how he promised Satan anything if Dean woke up healthy and whole and _alive_. Doesn't remember pacing the waiting room for hours in a shirt drenched with his brother's blood. Doesn't remember all the curses and bargains, how he swore to God and the Devil and everyone in-between that if Dean died, that was it. Game over.

He's pulled Dean from Death's grasp more than once, but stalking around the waiting room, he hates how something feels so _final_ this time.

o0o

_Hold on, Dean_, he hears, the whisper echoing around him, in him, through him_. Hold on, baby_.

He can't answer, can just lie there, watching the nurses and doctors scurry around, doing their best to save him.

_Don't worry, love_, Momma says, and he feels a hand ghost across his forehead. _You'll be fine_. Lips brush his cheek and she continues, _Sammy won't let you go._

Dean's waiting, stuck in his dying body, alone in a crowded room, Momma's soul beside him and Sammy down the hall. The people trying to save him flicker in and out, and Momma's voice fades.

Then Tessa is standing next to him.

_Dean_, she says,_ just rest. Let me take care of you._

o0o

Sam doesn't remember, later, when the doctor talked to him, what the doctor said.

Without a reason, Dad once told them, no ghost will linger. Find the reason, find whatever the spirit is clinging to, and they can be set free.

Sam doesn't remember collapsing or screaming, doesn't remember threading his fingers through Dean's short hair, doesn't remember gripping Dean's hand, limp and cooling, doesn't remember squeezing his eyes tight and begging, pleading, cajoling, demanding Dean fall back into his body and _wake up._ Sam doesn't remember slipping into sleep or slumping down over Dean's bed, doesn't remember sobbing or how it felt to realize he was the last man standing. He doesn't remember signing the papers or listening to the doctor, but he does remember stealing Dean's body from the hospital morgue. He does remember laying Dean gently on the backseat, does remember driving for hours, looking for the perfect place.

He does remember pulling off the road and laughing hysterically. Perfect place. _Perfect place_. Ain't no such thing, not anymore.

He does remember the laughter turning to tears.

But the overwhelming memory, even years down the road, is when Sam looks in the rearview and sees Dean looking back.

o0o

"Dean," she says, disappointed.

"I'm sorry," he answers, unable to look into her eyes. "I tried."

She pulls his head down, forcing him to meet her gaze. "I thought you stronger. I thought you would hold on even after there was nothing to hold on to. Sam's shrieking for you to go back—can't you hear him?"

Dean sighs, sags down. "I'm just so tired, Momma…"

"I know, Dean," she replies. "I know. But, no matter what Death thinks, it's not your time. You've fought too long, too hard, and you will get your chance to rest."

Dean finishes her thought. "But not yet."

"I know you're aching, baby," she whispers, kissing his brow. "But it's just gettin' started."

He sighs again. "How long?"

She smiles, sadly, brokenly. "Until it's done. And not a moment before."

o0o

Sam slams on the brakes and the Impala spins around. "Dean?"

"Hiya, Sammy," Dean says and sinks back onto the seats. "God, I'm cold."

"Dean?" Sam repeats and turns around, unable to take his eyes off his brother.

Dean's eyelids flicker open. "I'm here, Sammy. I'm not goin' anywhere, promise. 'm jus' tired."

Sam pulls off the road and gets out the car, slowly steps to the back door, opens it even slower. Dean's still there, limply sitting up, shallowly breathing. Sam crawls in next to him, touches his face, his neck, his chest.

The wendigo's marks are still there. Not bleeding, not healed. On his cheek, across his chest and stomach, down his back.

Sam's eyes tear and he pull Dean to him, lightly wraps his arms around his brother.

"Sammy," Dean mutters, shifting in attempts to get comfortable. "m'fine, honest."

Sam sniffs and just kisses Dean's hair. "I know," he whispers.

He doesn't understand and knows he probably never will, but somehow he's been given Dean back.

Sam shuts his eyes and clutches Dean closer, falls asleep to Dean breathing.

Dean, breathing. Sam has good dreams that night.

o0o

Dean wakes up slowly, quietly. Through the window, he watches the sun peek over the horizon.

He'd been dead and he knows it. Three times over. But he can't stay dead, not when Sammy's waiting for him alone. So he watches the sun paint the sky and waits for Sam to wake up.

He won't be given any more chances, of that he's sure. Momma has nothing left and Death'll be back. But somehow he's got to find a way.

Light hits the Impala and Dean soaks it up, shifts out of Sam's grip. Sam stirs, opens his eyes, yawns.

"Dean," he says, tightening his grip; Dean stills.

"m'here, Sam," he answers. "Everythin's fine."

Sam turns his head, reaches out to trace the scores across his cheek. "Does it hurt?" he whispers, gaze shooting to Dean's and back.

"No," Dean says, shaking his head. "Not anymore."

Sam sucks in a breath. "You were dead." His voice is soft, broken, infinitely young.

"I know," Dean responds gently. "But I'm back. I'm fine."

Sam nods slowly and opens the door, slips out. Dean follows and stands next to him. The highway is just out of sight; Dean can hear the cars rushing by. He stands patiently, allows Sam to examine him, make sure he's healthy and whole, beyond the slashes. Alive. "I'm fine," Dean says again, softly, surely.

Sam looks down, away. Dean shakes his head and reaches out, pulls Sam to him. He just wraps his arms around his yeti of a little brother, fists his hands in Sam's shirt. After half a heartbeat, Sam mirrors the motion, burying his face in Dean's neck, body wracked with sobs.

"You were dead," is what Dean hears. "And I couldn't save you."

"I got ya, Sammy," Dean says, just holding on.

o0o

_You don't_ _know what you've done_, Tessa says, annoyed. Not angry, not yet. Perplexed.

_Don't I?_ Mary flippantly replies. _To_ _you, they are mortals, Winchesters they may be_. She flicks Tessa a glance. _But I, dear Reaper, I know their souls. I conceived them, I carried them, I bore them—none can ever know them as I do. _

Tessa shoots her a look. _Save the preaching, Spirit. _

Mary laughs. _You can't understand, Reaper. None of you_ _can_.

_He died_, Tessa declares. _You have played with the natural order._

Shrugging, Mary responds, _Perhaps. But my son is not for you—or any Reaper—to claim._ Her smile is slow and beautiful. _I assure you, Reaper, you could not have taken him, no matter how you tried_.

With a glare, Tessa looks back towards Mary's sons. _You're wrong, Spirit. I **will** claim him. _

Mary's laughter rings out and both mortals look over. A shiver shoots down the spine Tessa doesn't have.

Mary smiles.


	32. untitled 3

Title: untitled

Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun.

Warnings: AU

Pairings: John/Mary, Sam/Jessica

Rating: PG

Wordcount: 1610

Point of view: third

* * *

********

**Chains**

Dean pretends he isn't trapped in a life he doesn't want every time he follows Dad's orders to the letter because of a fuck-up more than a decade old.

**Arabia**

The white horses canter around the ring and Dean watches, envious of the kids who don't know hardship or want; they have freedom, and their laughter fills the air.

**Tsunami**

The pain swells in his chest despite no visible wound and Dean watches Sam step onto the bus.

**Treachery**

He never picked a side, yet they both thought of him as a traitor, anyway.

**Grace**

"You're only alive by the grace of God, son," Pastor Jim told him and John just barely kept himself from scoffing.

**Whisper**

He could hear her, sometimes, just an echo of her laughter in the wind; and then, almost _see_ her as her sons played.

**Paint**

"It's not that important, really," Sammy said in a rush, the paper clutched in his hands and his eyes not meeting Dean's, "but I drew this for you."

**Sky**

Sam stared at the clouds, wondering if Jess was up there somewhere, at peace.

**War**

Dean never wanted this, never dreamed of it, never planned for it—but this fight came to him and Dad needs help, and someone's got to make sure Sam's hopes aren't dashed like his.

**One**

"One day," Mary said to Dean, telling him a story before bedtime, "the sky will stretch forever and the sun will shine bright and you'll spread your wings far enough to soar."

**Love**

"If you walk out that door, don't you come back."

**Name**

"Hey, I'm Jessica."

**Violet**

The petals scatter on her grave and he almost smiles before turning and walking back to the Impala.

**Vengeance**

"We've got work to do."

**Prerogative**

Sam thought it was everyone's right to reach for their dreams, to have freedom; clearly, Dad didn't agree.

**Hallelujah**

John wondered if Mary had joined the choir in Heaven—he'd always told her she sang like an angel.

**Mountaintop**

Standing on the ledge, John looks over, and wonders what it'd be like to fly.

**Expulsion**

Dean wasn't stupid, not by any means, but he always rode the fence on getting kicked out of school.

**Bully**

"Dean, I understand, really I do, but you have to stop getting in fights just because they went after Sammy."

**Persnickety**

Sam was a picky eater, only eating sugary messes until Dean told him that broccoli was magical and it made Momma smile if he chose it.

**Broken**

They never talked about it, never, and Sam wanted to, but Dean wouldn't answer any questions—the first months after Sam left were closed to discussion, end of story.

**Misery**

Hell, Dean thinks, is being the one left standing alone when everyone you love walks away without looking back.

**Regret**

John didn't make it to Sam's play, even though—Sam would never believe him—he'd wanted to.

**School**

"Dean, the school called again today—when are you going to quit making trouble?"

**Blade**

The dagger gleamed in the moonlight; Dean ran his finger along the edge and smiled when the blade cut deep.

**Requiem**

John bowed his head and clutched Sammy close while the rest of the mourners walked away; Dean stood, solemn and silent, by his side.

**Porcelain**

The poltergeist grabbed Dean and swung him around into the wall; some of his ribs snapped like twigs and John's rage burned even higher.

**Torn**

After Chicago, after Dean sent Dad away, Sam watched him like a hawk and could see just how torn up Dean was; of course, he later realized, he still didn't have a fucking clue.

**Wake**

Jessica wondered if she'd ever awaken from this nightmare, from the stench of charred flesh and smoke, from the heat and the burn, and Sam's mother told her, "No, we won't."

**Sleep**

Dean hasn't had a peaceful night's sleep in over twenty years.

**Paradox**

Sam shook his head in disbelief; sometimes, Dean acted so much like a child, finding joy in everything, and other times he… seemed so _weary_.

**Chaos**

It happened so swiftly—John looked away for a moment, glanced at the sky, and when he turned back, Dean was gone from the playground as though he'd never been.

**Scorn**

Dean was so proud of his skills, of his ability to create new things from bit-parts, and Sam's words—_Yeah, I can see that_—hit him deep inside… not that he let Sam see, of course.

**Ebony**

She gleamed in the sunlight, his noble steed—Dean snorted and wondered if that made him a knight or a prince.

**Jagged**

Mary smiled at her boys, her soul hurting at their pain; as she stepped past Dean, she wished she could heal him, just a little, because it was all going to get so much worse.

**Soldier**

Sam would never get his brother; every time he started with, "You don't always have to do what he says!" Dean would cut in with, "Yeah, I do," and that was it.

**Cave**

"Y'know, this coulda been avoided, Sammy, if you'd just listened to me."

**River**

John wondered if he had enough to pay Charon when it came to that.

**Parent**

Mary tickled Dean before kissing him goodnight.

**Holy**

Jessica didn't go to church often, but Sam didn't go at all.

**Pale**

For some reason, Dean had expected more—not a wrinkled, pale dude in a suit.

**Abyss**

He could feel it, the overwhelming pain and rage and hate on his edges, and he knew he needed to take control or he'd fall and not be able to claw his way out.

**Marriage**

"I do, Mary—God, I do."

**Law**

"What do you want to do—ask the good doctor if I can steal his torture devices before he uses them on someone else?"

**Soul**

Sometimes, Dean thought he'd pay good money to have his soul wrenched from his body so that he couldn't feel anymore.

**Legend**

"Hey—you think we should check out Nessie?"

**Child**

Sam used to love watching "Thundercats" with Dean and eating spaghettios; sometimes, in the middle of class at Stanford, he misses those days more than he thought possible.

**Employee**

"John, I'm going to have to cut you loose—you're not focusing on your work anymore."

**Grief**

One time, when Dean was missing and John couldn't find him anywhere, he thought about what would happen if Dean'd been stolen like Mary—for just an instant, John knew he wouldn't be able to take it and everything would be over.

**Pirate**

"Oh, _c'mon_, Dean, you _cannot_ like Barbossa more than Jack!"

**College**

Dean sometimes checked out brochures, but he never really planned on leaving.

**Story**

Caleb sometimes tried to look down the road and wonder what stories would be told about him.

**Shard**

"Next time, Sammy, aim for the target and not a window."

**Ornate**

Meg peered into the blood and wondered what on Earth her father had thought, not letting her go after Sam—she could have had John, too, if he'd let her.

**Test**

"This isn't a quiz, Sam—I get that you think school is more important than people's lives, so go on ahead."

**Adult**

Dean lowers the shotgun and watches the werewolf crumple to the ground.

* * *


	33. untitled 4

Title: untitled

Disclaimer: Not my characters. Just for fun.  
Warnings: serious AU; spoilers for season 1 and the first two eps of season 2

Pairings: Sam/Jessica; John/Mary; wincest if you really want it.

Rating: PG

Wordcount: 1530

Point of view: third

* * *

**Fall**

She knew she loved him when he smiled after getting splashed by scalding coffee and laughed away her apologies.

**Conducive **

Their life didn't make reaching the stars easy, but Sam had the will, so he knew the way would come.

**Killer**

He didn't mean to, he really didn't, and he'd almost forgotten—but the bloody tears rolled down his cheeks, and he can only be glad he had Sam to look after, or he might have lost it then and there.

**Rose**

"It's a cliché, I know," she said, hazel eyes shining, "but, Johnny, they're my favorite."

**Silver**

If every dark cloud has a lining that looms… watching Dad burn, he just can't see it.

**Snake**

He never learned The Demon's name, but in his mind, he called it Lucifer.

**Apple**

After Burkitsville, Dean still ate pie, but Sam couldn't stand the smell of it.

**Gorgon**

She flipped through the book, lost in old Greek myths, and John watched her, wondering if her golden hair felt as soft as it looked.

**Poet**

He knew he loved her the day she smiled so bright she outshone the sun.

**Vengeance**

"It'll kill you, son," Jim told him, but he knew John wasn't listening.

**Wings**

Watching them wheel across the sky, Dean almost regrets that he fears to fly.

**Snapdragon**

Mary watches Dean study the flowers and smiles; his fascination reminds her of her own childhood and how much she misses her innocence.

**Buried**

"You always knew Mary's past would come to haunt you, John."

**Shattered**

When Sam looked at the Impala—Dean's baby—and the wounds Dean'd given her, he knew nothing could ever be the same.

**Thief**

"Gotta tell ya, Sammy—your brother's is the best skin I've worn."

**Red**

Out of all the colors in the world, Dean's least favorite is blood.

**Broken**

Seventeen times.

**Memory**

When he dreams, he sees her dancing around the kitchen, hair flying around her, the world's largest grin on her face.

**Frame**

Without a frame, a house can't stand; without Mary, John can't breathe.

**Anger**

Dean thinks about it sometimes, almost without meaning to—did Ellicott really give Sam anything that wasn't already there?

**Love**

"This isn't love," Sam snarled in that last fight before years of silence, "it's obsession, you sorry bastard, and those aren't anywhere near being the same thing."

**Elbow**

"I swear, Sammy, they're the weirdest bone in the body."

**Heaven**

"Yes, Dean, there is Heaven—it's where your momma is."

**Skeleton**

The bones jeered at him and it bothered him almost as much as the spirit throwing furniture.

**Far**

A country and three years separated them, but Sam sometimes still expected to turn around and see Dean.

**Hell**

Sam lay still, silent, unmoving—and Dean didn't know what to do.

**Loss**

John still looked for her in a crowd, and he always glanced twice at someone with flaxen hair.

**Content**

With Jessica curled up in his arms, he realized he missed Dean.

**Near**

They lived out of each other's pockets, knew most everything about each other, couldn't comprehend a life apart—until Sam did and left.

**Ghost**

Missouri never wanted to see them but they ignored her request.

**Die**

They call it luck, that he survived this long, but he knows it's 'cause he's just so damned good.

**West**

He wasn't a cowboy and the west was no longer wild, but it still called to him, promising freedom.

**Moon**

She stared up at the dark sky, body changing against her will; then she threw back her head and howled.

**Puddle**

The rain'd finally ended, so Mary took Dean outside and let him play.

**Invincible**

He knew the car wasn't invincible, but until Sam saw it after the wreck, he couldn't comprehend.

**Special**

Most of his teachers could see the boy's potential but they didn't know how to make him care.

**Hunter**

Ellen watched them, John's boys—he'd been good, dangerous, but his sons…

**Inches**

Even after he shot up half a foot and towered over Dean, Sam never thought of him as small.

**Car**

Sometimes, Sam thought that if Dean had to pick between him and the car, he'd choose the damned Impala.

**Disillusion**

Within the first month at Stanford, Sam had ignored five hunts—and seven people died.

**Hunt**

If often seemed to end in fire—Dean wondered when he'd finally burn.

**Elder**

He never explained to Sam that it wasn't a burden—protecting him was part of Dean's genetic code.

**Satisfaction**

"What do you want for dinner, Sammy?"

**Tomb**

"Quiet as the grave," Dean muttered. "They have no clue what the hell they're talkin' 'bout."

**Kind**

No matter how many times he asked, Dean always gave Sammy the last of the Lucky Charms.

**Salt**

Sometimes he had to choose between chocolate and salt when the money ran low—and it wasn't a choice at all.

**Cruel**

John never meant to hurt Dean, but after Mary he just didn't know how to articulate anything anymore.

**Marble**

Right after flying, Dean's greatest fear was those creepy-ass statues whose eyes always followed him.

**Constant**

Just like the sun rising every day, Sam knew if he called Dean, Dean'd come—so he never did.

**Haunted**

It's funny, but Dean never feared ghosts—he wasn't afraid of revenants or spirits or any of their cousins, but he was fucking terrified of being left alone.

**Autumn**

Jo loved watching the leaves change color and float to the ground—it meant she was older and the world kept turning and the Darkness hadn't won yet.

**Childish**

"I _double_ dare you, Sammy."

**Prance**

Dean watched the Lipizzans dance across the screen, eyes wide with awe and wonder—and a smidge of jealousy, Jim noticed, but he didn't say a thing.

**Carve**

Whenever Halloween rolled around, Sammy would ask if they could decorate a pumpkin; sometimes, Dad said yes, but all the work fell to Dean.

**May**

Sam graduated at the top of his class; Dean barely graduated at all.

**Dare**

"The hell I'd do that for?"

**Winter**

Sam loved playing in the snow, making angels and people, and throwing snowballs—and Dean loved watching him glow with innocent joy.

**Stone**

He traced the words—they didn't do Jessica justice, not at all.

**World**

"You know, what I find interesting about you boys is that he'd watch the world burn to save you; but _you_, Dean, you'd light it afire to save him."


	34. untitled 5

**Title**: untitled

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: AU; spoilers for up to season 3

**Pairings**: John/Mary, Sam/Jessica

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 1295

**Point of view**: third

* * *

**Skin**

It almost scared Sam sometimes, how easily Dean could bury his emotions and act like nothing was wrong.

**Pandemonium**

In a room full of wild children, her gaze was drawn to the still, quiet boy in the corner, and his solemn hazel eyes.

**Pure**

John held his son moments after Dean's birth, and he'd never known such love.

**Almost**

"_Almost_ getting the were' doesn't count, Sam—a hunt is neither horseshoes nor hand-grenades."

**Fort**

Watching Sam toss and turn in the nights after Jessica, Dean misses their childhood days so much it hurts.

**Parent**

John knows he would die or kill for Mary—but for his sons, he'd kill her.

**Sacrifice**

"Damn you, Dad—didn't you think_ I_ should get the choice?"

**Hate**

It isn't often, but every now and then, when Sam thinks of Jessica, he hates her for dying and sending him back to the hunt.

**Monster**

One of the greatest lessons Daniel ever taught John was to stay rooted in the real world; if you lose your grip on the light, he'd gruffly said, the darkness will swallow you whole.

**Stable**

When Dean was twelve, they spent almost an entire year within walking distance of a riding school—it was the best thing Dean could remember.

**Late**

On Halloween, Jessica realized she was two weeks late.

**Certainty**

It was a fact of life: before John died, he _would_ destroy Mary's killer.

**Offer**

Nothing was ever explicitly stated, but words weren't needed—they were sated, he got money, and Sammy had food.

**Belief**

Sam couldn't decide whether or not to pray, but surely… for all the evils he'd seen, there had to be something good.

**Remain**

They both swore to salt and burn the other, just in case.

**Keep**

In a safety deposit box, hidden away safely, John has both his sons childhood mementos, things they think long lost and gone.

**Dance**

Sometimes, every day of the year, John thinks back to Mary, and regrets that he didn't take her out every single time she asked.

**Steady**

Wrapped around a gun almost bigger than him, Dean's hands do not tremble.

**Child**

His childhood died with his mother when he was six months old.

**Protect**

"Take your brother outside, as fast as you can."

**Friend**

She wrote the email and sent it, not expecting much; when Sam showed up, his brother beside him, she realized he was a better person than she'd ever thought.

**Whisper**

Most of his dreams are nightmares, now, and her voice threads through them all.

**Instinct**

Killing is in their blood, deep in their bones, and Dean knows that Sam will learn he can't escape it, no matter how fast or far he runs.

**Act**

He played a good game, the best she'd seen in a long time, but not even Dean Winchester could fool Death into letting him go.

**Shine**

In his nightmares, Dean has eyes that glint golden in the darkness.

**Flirt**

Even at death's door, Layla supposes, someone as beautiful as him can't resist.

**Thirst**

Upon awakening, the first thing Kate noticed was how parched she felt.

**Bath**

It'd be a long time before Andrea could go into the bathroom without expecting… something.

**Purple**

A few days after Sammy learned the color of royalty, he dyed all of Dean's white shirts purple.

**Abyss**

Sometimes, Meg wishes she were crazy instead of possessed—she bets that'd be easier to take.

**Mate**

Kate thinks the perfect revenge for Luther would be choosing one of Winchester's sons to take in his place.

**Stay**

"Wait," she said, "Spend the night"—but Dean had somewhere to be.

**Freedom**

Sam wonders if freedom has a taste as the bus rolls towards California, because all he tastes is regret.

**Baptism**

He was baptized at age twenty-two by his girlfriend's blood; sometimes, he wonders what that can possibly say about him.

**Perception**

If there is no true reality, Dean thinks, why would someone perceive this?

**Cavern**

Tommy can't stand the dark or small spaces anymore, Haley won't let him out of her sight, and Ben is learning to shoot a gun.

**Innate**

The first time Sam picked up a knife, he felt a small thrill; twenty-plus years later, he picks up a blade and feels whole.

**Arrival**

Max cowered against the wall, Dad screaming, and wondered what he could possibly have done; a few hours later, a book jumped into his hand.

**Expectation**

John knew Sam hated hunting, but he also knew Sam couldn't ever truly escape.

**Comfort**

At four years old, Sam ran to Dean; at twenty-four, he went to the same place.

**Forever**

Not even death can stop them, It realizes, and then John's ghost smiles.

**Coal**

Sam really fucking hates hillbillies and their barns and their thirteen year old daughters who hold knives to Dean's eyes.

**Hand**

John remembers how soft her skin was, how fragile her fingers wrapped in his, how her hand trembled when he slipped on the ring.

**Records**

Dean really fucking hates libraries.

**Wedded**

"Those boys of yours, John," Missouri said tartly, "you've ruined them for anyone but each other."

**Iron**

Sarah will never look at another painting without wondering.

**Army**

John looks at Dean and tries to see his son, Mary's boy—but all he sees is a soldier, the warrior he's turned Mary's darling into.

**Barrier**

A giant wall separates Kat from the girl she was before the asylum.

**Guilt**

Only Sam notices that Dad sometimes can't meet Dean's gaze; from the few pictures, he knows that Dean has Mom's eyes.

**Escape**

It took him awhile, but finally Sam knows he'll never leave the hunt.

**Age**

Long ago, Dean resigned himself to never growing old.


	35. death will arrive, dear warrior

**Title**: death will arrive, dear warrior, to sweep you away

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from _Beowulf_.

**Warnings**: AU for season four

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 2120

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: for sadelyrate, on the occasion of her birthday! Thanks to dreamlittleyo for reading it over.

* * *

_Dean on a pale horse_

_And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. – Revelation, 6:8_

Dean had been gone for a full year when the masked man showed up outside Sam's motel room. He wore all black; Sam's first thought was Westley from _Princess Bride_.

A white horse stood behind the masked man, bareback with no bridle. He was tall, at least eighteen hands, and well-formed. He kept still, seemingly waiting for the rider to make a move.

Sam raised a brow. All the world was swimming around him, courtesy the beers he'd drunk for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and he needed to go vomit, so he slammed the door—wincing at the noise—and headed for the bathroom.

When he came out, ready to fall face-first into bed and wait to die or sleep or whichever came first, the masked man was waiting for him, sprawled out decadently over the bed.

"What the fuck?" he asked, wiping a hand across his face. When he looked back, the dude was still there. "Who the hell are you?"

The man slowly sat up, his eyes in shadow behind his mask. "You should choose rooms with better locks, Sammy," he said.

Sam froze and his knees buckled. The man—Dean? No, it couldn't be Dean, Dean was in Hell—was off the bed and across the room, catching Sam before he hit the floor.

No human could move that fast, even a lifelong hunter.

"I swear, leave you alone for a year and you just… give up. What the Hell?" DeanNotDeanDeanNotDean grumbled, slinging an arm around Sam's back and steadying him on his feet. "Not cool, dude."

"Dean?" Sam asked, blinking down at him. The black mask was fucking creepy, a piece of dark cloth covering his face. "Take it off."

Dean-NotDean-Dean slowly reached up and peeled away the mask, and it was Dean. It was Dean like he'd never left, never been torn apart and buried and rotted. It was _Dean,_ and Sam wrapped around him, sobbing.

Dean just held him till he fell into an exhausted, drunken slumber.

o0o

Sam woke up in degrees; all his reflexes were shot, a year of booze and no sleep taking its toll. He rolled over, hand reaching out to check the bed, because he'd had the weirdest, most vivid dream ever: something about Dean coming back and Westley.

His hand hit a warm body and he jackknifed up, vomiting in the process.

"Oh, dude, _gross_," Dean said. He patted Sam's back. "Let it all out, Sammy."

He gasped for air, staring up at Dean from beneath his bangs. Dean. Not dead. _Dean_.

"How…" He grabbed Dean's arm, pulling him close, checking him over for wounds.

Dean laughed softly but kept still, and said, "Hey, lil'brother. What've you been up to?"

Finally, Sam's hand paused at Dean's face. He examined every freckle, turning Dean's head to each side, at last settling on Dean's eyes: just as hazel, just as bright. Like he'd never died. "I couldn't get you out," he said. "I tried every ritual, every demon, every spell. I even tried lock-picking the Devil's Gate. But I couldn't get you out."

Dean nodded. "I know. They told me about every failed attempt, but it gave me hope that you tried."

Sam let his hands fall. "How did you escape?" His mouth was dry, his stomach rumbling, and he needed to piss. But he wasn't letting Dean out of his sight for a single millisecond.

Part of him was sure it had to be a dream.

"I didn't," Dean said softly, looking away. "They let me out for bad behavior."

"What?" Sam reached over, lifting Dean's hand out of his lap. He curled his fingers gently around Dean's wrist, pressing his thumb to Dean's pulse.

Outside, something screamed. Dean's head flew up and he called softly, "Adramelech?" He cocked his head like he was listening to something. Sam just stared at him for a moment, waiting. Dean nodded and focused back on Sam. "Time to go, dude. Gotta get you somewhere safe." He slipped out of Sam's grip and off the bed. "Up, up, lil'brother," he said, grabbing Sam's wrist and pulling.

Sam should have been able to resist moving, but Dean was a lot stronger than he remembered; in the space of a blink, he was standing, swaying like a sapling in a storm. Dean hurried around the room, tossing stuff into Sam's duffels.

Sam watched him for a few minutes before asking, "What are you doing?"

Dean didn't even look at him. "Getting you ready to go." He tossed Sam one of his boots; Sam fumbled catching it. "Put your shoes on, Sam."

Sam slumped down on the bed, trying to shove his foot into the boot, but his fingers didn't want to work.

Sighing in disgust, Dean knelt in front of him, taking over the process. "First thing to do," he muttered, "is get your drunkard ass all sobered up."

Sam just sat there complacently, very sure he was dreaming, and basked in having a big brother again.

o0o

The sun blinded him when Dean led him out of the hotel room. He blinked, cringing, and Dean swung the duffels onto the white horse's back.

"I'll meet you," he said, turning to Sam. "Adramelech will take care of you."

Sam just stood there. Dean raised a brow. "Get on the horse, Sam."

Shaking his head, Sam crossed his arms. "I'm not going anywhere without you. Not a chance. Never again."

Dean closed his eyes for a moment, an expression on his face that Sam recognized from his adolescence. "Sam," he growled, opening his eyes to glare. "We don't have time. Get on Adramelech or I will make you."

The horse snorted. Dean hissed, "Not now, you nag."

Sam didn't move.

Dean said, "Last chance, Sammy."

Sam still didn't move; he couldn't see when Dean did, but quicker than a blink, he was on the horse.

Looking down, he swallowed hard; the ground was a long way away. Sam had never been crazy about horses. "Take him you-know-where," Dean said to the horse. "And Adramelech? Take care of him."

The horse tossed its head.

Dean patted Sam's thigh and said softly, "I'll meet you, Sammy. I just gotta take care of some business first."

"If you go away," Sam said, "you'll never come back."

When Dean smiled, it was the saddest thing Sam had ever seen. "I know the promise of a dead man doesn't mean much," he said, stepping back and slipping the mask on again, "but I'll meet you. And I will always _always_ come for you, Sam. It just might take me awhile."

The horse rubbed its nose against Dean's shoulder and then started running. Sam clutched at the horse's neck, panicked, but though he bounced all over the saddle-less back, he didn't fall off.

Sam fell asleep on the back of that pale horse and woke up stretched out on grass in a circle of iron.

_No one can get in, _said a voice deeper than the depths of the ocean. Sam turned and saw the horse sitting the ground, legs folded. It looked regal, majestic.

"What are you?" Sam asked. "What's Dean?"

The deep voice chuckled. The horse's mouth never moved. _I am a pale horse_, it said. _And he is my rider. _

Sam's mind was almost dissolved by a year of alcohol and despair, but some things he remembered. "Oh, holy fuck," he whispered, staring into the pale horse's dark eyes.

_Yes_, the horse said. _Now, we wait for him to find us_.

Sam lay back down and looked up at the sky.

o0o

Sam thought a few days passed; he floated in a haze of half-formed dreams and memories. The horse got up a few times, trotted around, lipped at his hair. It didn't speak again, though, and never left the circle.

When a sudden crack of thunder clapped, Sam lunged up and the horse bugled, rearing on its hind-legs, striking at the air.

"Calm on down, there, boy," Dean said from behind them. "It's just me."

The horse wheeled around and Sam turned so sharply he fell over.

"Dude," Dean chuckled, offering him a hand up.

The horse neighed and Dean raised an eyebrow. "Mel," he said, "'course I took care of it. You think I'd've come back here if I didn't?"

Once Sam was steady on his feet, Dean backed up. "We'll stay a few more days," he told Sam. "Then we'll head on. That okay, Sam?"

Sam just stared at him in silence. After a few moments, Dean turned to the horse and asked, "Adramelech, did you break Sammy?"

He didn't hear what the horse said but Dean looked back at him and said, "Oh. Sammy…"

"Out for bad behavior?" Sam asked. "Fuck, Dean."

Dean ducked his head, lifting a hand to scratch the back of his neck. "Sammy," he said again. "It's not that big a deal."

"Not that big a deal?" Sam roared. "You're fucking _Death_, Dean! You're Death on a Pale Horse from the fucking _Bible_."

Shrugging, Dean said, "Well, yeah." His grin was forced. "I mean, what else'm I gonna be, Sammy? A fucking demon? No way."

Sam stared at him. Dean. Death on a Pale Horse. A year in Hell, but still mostly Dean. Death.

"What can I do, Sam?" Dean asked quietly. The horse sidled over and nudged his shoulder with its nose. Dean ran his hand along the horse's face, eyes on Sam. "How can I make this better?"

He sounded so much like the brother Sam knew once, before college, before Jessica, before Dad and Azazel and Hell. He sounded like Dean, who had been the end-all and be-all of Sam's universe.

"You can't," Sam said. "Unless you can erase the past nine years and let me do my life over."

Dean smiled sadly at him, taking one hesitant step closer. The horse settled behind him, head over his shoulder. _He loves you, _it said. _He's meant to be in Hell, preparing the army. Instead he's here, going against orders, to save you. _

Sam closed his eyes, pulling in deep breath. "I've gotta be asleep," he muttered. He raised his head to look at Dean. "This's the weirdest dream I've had involving you—worse than the pineapple/grapefruit wedding. I wanna wake up now."

Dean came the rest of the way over, his hand warm on Sam's skin. "You're not asleep, dude," he said. "I'm here for the rest of eternity, Sammy." He lightly shook Sam's head, cradling his face in those hands Sam remembered from every day of his childhood until he left Dean to become a man. "I'm here until everything ends." He pulled Sam's face down to look him right in the eyes. "I'm Death on a Pale Horse," he said. "Which means it won't end until I want it to."

Sam brought his hands up to place on Dean's. "When will that be?" he asked.

Dean's grin was hellfire mixed with pancake batter, and he answered, "Up to you, dude."

Adramelech lightly nudged his head. _We need to go, _the pale horse reminded them.

Sam dropped his hands; Dean backed up, tangling his fingers in the horse's long mane. "Climb on up, Sammy," he said. "'less you want me to put you on again."

Shuddering, Sam clutched the horse's mane and tried to pull himself onto the broad, long back; he didn't make it and nearly fell on his ass. Dean choked on his laughter when Sam turned to glare.

The horse sighed. Dean nodded and said, "Sorry, Sammy."

Again, Sam didn't see him move, but suddenly he was entirely too far off the ground on the back of a hellbeast that very well might hate him. He dug his fingers into the mane, holding on with all his strength.

Dean laughed again. "Dude, Mel won't let you fall."

He patted the horse's shoulder before somehow swinging himself up behind Sam. "Let's go, kiddo," he said. "Got places to go, people to kill."

Adramelech tossed its head and Sam closed his eyes. Dean's arms went around his middle and he murmured, "I got you, Sammy. Trust me. Everything will be fine."

And Sam felt like he was eight-years-old again, with Dean as everything.

Dean spent a year in Hell, but he was out now; he'd become Death and he came back to Sam. He survived and he came back, and now he was with Sam forever. Death can't die.

"I do trust you," Sam said.

He felt Dean's breath against the back of his neck when Dean said, "Good."


	36. Alas, my children

**Title**: Alas, my children, why do you look at me?

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from _Medea_.

**Warnings**: spoilers for aired season four

**Pairings**: John/Mary, Mary's parents, John/OFC

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 1470

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: This is an AU that could fit canon.

**More notes**: Thanks to smilla02 for reading this over.

* * *

John likes to think of himself as a good father. He's done the best he could. He's raised Mary's boys into strong men, into warriors. Dean is an even better hunter than John, and Sam has the brains and will to do damn near anything.

John always tried to tell the truth whenever possible, but talking about Mary hurt so bad, for so long—

Driving away from Jericho, he remembers…

o0o

_She wanted to keep you. _

John got home from work late, exhausted. It had been a horrible day with customers hounding him every minute, demanding he fix shit he couldn't do a thing about. And when George Shelters got right up in his face, it took all his self-control not to put the bastard down.

He just wanted to crawl into bed with his wife and hold her till he fell asleep, because he knew tonight would be bad. Tonight, the war would stalk his dreams.

He entered the house quietly and walked up the dark stairs. It was silent, and that bothered him—Mary always had a light and the radio on. "Mary!" he called, hurrying down the hall.

Once he got to their bedroom door, he heard muffled sobbing and rushed in. Mary was beneath the blanket, curled up, head on her arms.

"Mary?" he murmured, crawling up next to her. "Babe, what's wrong?" He gently pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her. "Mary, please tell me."

She clung to him. "Johnny," she whispered, tears thickening her voice and glistening on her face. "Johnny, I'm not ready to be a mom. We can't keep it. We can't."

He froze. "You're pregnant?"

She nodded, hands clenching in his oil- and sweat-soaked shirt, sobbing harder.

He breathed, caressing her neck and rolling over to curl around her. "Shh, sweetheart," he said. "We'll make it work, Mary. I'm here. I love you. I'm not going anywhere."

She slowly calmed and fell asleep in his arms. John held her until he slipped into sleep, too.

o0o

_She named you after James Dean._

John paced, fists clenching and unclenching. Something had gone wrong and no one would tell him anything. Three hours since they took her away, and not one word—

"You can see them now."

John whirled. The doctor stood there, blood drying on his hands. "Your wife and son will be fine. You can go in."

John lunged past him. He'd have questions later, but for now he needed to see Mary, to touch her. And his son—

Mary lay in the bed, sweaty and pale, and she was staring at a bundle in her arms.

"It's a boy," she said, voice shaking, looking up with watery eyes. "We have a boy, Johnny."

He sank to his knees next to her, gently pulling down the blanket around his son.

"Can we name him _Dean_?" Mary asked.

"Yes," John said. "I think your mom would like that."

o0o

_She made the best cookies in the world._

John knocked on the door. Four weeks they'd been dating, and not a single dream about the war in all that time. Mary was a balm. He needed to see her today, just for a moment, and then he could go to the garage.

Mr. Campbell opened the door and raised an eyebrow. John straightened to his full height.

"Mary didn't tell me about a date," Mr. Campbell said, voice low and smooth.

"We don't have one, sir," John said. "I just need to see her for a minute, that's all."

Mrs. Campbell came up behind him. "Let the boy in, Samuel," she called. "I bet he'll like some cookies."

Backing up, Mr. Campbell scowled. "Yeah," he muttered. "I bet you would." He turned and went down the hall. "She's in the kitchen," he said over his shoulder. "You have one minute."

John hurried to the kitchen, just in time to hear Mary yell, "Shit!"

Mrs. Campbell laughed. "It's not that big a deal, honey. So you can't make cookies."

John stepped in to see Mary covered in flour and the counters a mess around her. Mary slammed a cookbook down and said, "I can shoot the balls off a target without even thinking, so why the hell can't I bake come damned cookies?"  
John brought a hand to his mouth to stop his laughter. Mary spun and glared at him. "Winchester," she hissed. "These were gonna be for you, so if I hear one comment— "

He shook his head, desperately trying not to laugh. Mrs. Campbell grinned at him. "Why don't you kids go for a walk? There's a batch already in the oven, from dough I made last night."

John nodded, using iron self-control to say, "Yes, ma'am," without his voice shaking.

Mary stomped past him, out the kitchen. John took one last look at the mess. "How did she even do this?"

Mrs. Campbell laughed again. "I have no idea." She nodded after Mary. "You'd better catch up, kiddo. She wasn't joking about bein' able to shoot."

John nodded to her and hurried.

o0o

_She's in Heaven._

With Dean leaning against him and Sam in his arms, John decided God did not exist. _And if there's no God, then there's no Heaven_, he realized. _So where are you, Mary? Are you here, somewhere, watching me? Watching our home burn?  
_Dean whimpered, pressing in close. Sam sniffed, large eyes blinking up at him.

John survived one war. Something happened here tonight, and he swore to find out what. If necessary, he'd fight a second.

o0o

_Sam's her son, too._

John had no idea what had gone wrong, but he and Mary hadn't stopped fighting for three weeks. He'd get home angry, she'd already be pissed about something, and they'd go to sleep in cold silence. John slept on the couch.

And tonight, he just couldn't handle it. Dean's big sad eyes, Mary's accusing glares—he didn't know what he'd done, and Mary expected him to read her mind.

So he didn't go home. He went to a bar and he drank and when a pretty little blonde with huge hazel eyes invited him home, he went.

The next morning, he woke in bed with a stranger and left without word. He rushed home to his wife and son, threw himself at Mary's feet, and sobbingly confessed.

He expected her to leave or throw him out, but she just looked at him and asked, "Will you ever do it again?"  
He shook his head, longing to hold her, kiss her, show with his body that he would never again stray. "I love you," he said. "I don't know what these past weeks have been about, but I love you."

Mary nodded, falling to her knees. She placed one hand on his face, calloused fingers stroking his jaw. "I love you," she whispered. "I'm sorry, the way I've been acting. But if you ever cheat on me again, I'll castrate you."

He kissed her.

Five months later, a little blonde with huge hazel eyes who wasn't his wife stormed into the garage and demanded to know what he planned to do about the parasite growing in her. When he went to Mary, she said, "The baby's yours. That makes the baby mine."

When the woman gave birth, Mary was right there in the waiting room with him, telling Dean a story about warriors who fought the dark.

The woman handed off his son without a backwards glance and John told Mary to name him.

o0o

John wiped away tears as he left California behind. "Mary," he said, "God, Mary. It should have gotten easier, but it never has."

His phone rang. He reached over and picked it up, looked at the ID: Dean. Just like the previous two calls, and the three before that.

"Sorry, kiddo," he said, tossing the phone back down.

He turned the radio up; Johnny Cash sang about killing men in Reno. He hummed along.

Mixed in with all the bald-faced lies and lies by omission, John had told one inarguable truth. And passing into Oregon, John replayed the moment he truly realized Mary was it for him.

o0o

_She loved you both more than the world._

"Dean," Mary said, kneeling in front of their son. "This is Sammy, your little brother."

Dean peered at the newborn. "You don't love me anymore?" he asked, sticking his thumb in his mouth.

Mary chuckled. "No, baby. I'll always love you. But Sammy's my boy, too." She leaned down to kiss Dean's forehead. "You can touch him, Dean, but be careful."

Reaching out with his free hand, Dean let his fingers rest on Sammy's face.

"You're both my boys," Mary said. She looked up to smile at John.

He grinned down and knew he'd love this woman forever.


	37. a place we know from dreams

**Title**: a place we know from dreams

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from _The Last of the Mohicans_.

**Warnings**: future!fic

**Pairings**: um… gennish wincest? Seriously, I don't know if it's Sam/Dean or no pairing.

**Rating**: PGish

**Wordcount**: 1635

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: thanks to _dreamlittleyo_ for reading over this.

* * *

_Where the sea kisses the sky,_ he said, _that's where I'll find you._

_Where the horizon ends, that's where I'll meet you._

_Wait. Just wait. I'll come. _

_Remember that. I'll always come._

o0o

They tell him his name is Dean Winchester. That he's an orphan. That his brother is a monster and someone has to stop him.

_You can do it, Dean. We know you have the knowledge somewhere inside you. Remember for us, please? Can you do that? Dean?_

He doesn't feel like a Dean. He doesn't feel anything but tired. He doesn't remember the man they say he was, or that man's brother. He doesn't remember a thing.

o0o

_Wait for me, promise. I need you to promise. I have things to do, things that have to be done, and you'll understand. I swear you'll understand._

_It's important, maybe the most important thing that's ever happened. _

_I have to do this, but I can't unless I know you'll be there. I have to know you'll be on the other side, waiting for me._

_I'll come back if I know you're there. Promise me._

o0o

They tell him he used to hurt people. A lot of people. They say his mind shattered one night, after he realized that his brother was even worse than him, and he turned himself in. Let himself be caught and kept.

_You're sick, Dean. Very sick. It started with your father. You can help us stop your brother. Just try to remember, Dean. _

He listens to them because he doesn't know how to do anything else, but he has no idea what they want to hear. His mind is one big blank, a long corridor of nothing.

If he was what they say, he doesn't want to remember.

o0o

_I'll find you. I'll find you._

_Wait for me._

_I'll find you. _

_When you've forgotten everything else, remember this: I will come back to you._

o0o

They show him the files, the pictures and records, the video footage. It's pretty damning, but he can't recall what it is to care. They tell him it wasn't his fault, that he can't be blamed for his upbringing, for the abuse and the brainwashing. They tell him he'll live out the rest of his life in the hospital.

They call him Dean and have earnest eyes, say it's all for the best. Even when his mind is hazy, his body remembers how to kill. They have to keep him restrained, drugged. It's for his protection as much as the others'.

_It's all for the best, Dean. You're dangerous to everyone and everything. Trust us._

He doesn't. Even when he can't be sure of anything, he trusts the man in his dreams more than anyone he sees awake.

o0o

_Trust me_, he said. _Wait for me. _

_Stay alive. You have to stay alive. You're everything. You're the reason I'm doing this. Why I have to. _

_You'll forget, I know you'll forget. I'll make you forget because it's safer that way. _

_But I will come. After it's done, I'll come back. I swear. Wait for me._

o0o

The detectives and agents and doctors repeat their questions, getting more frustrated and angry. The first time the lead agent takes a swing at him, no one tries to stop it. Until he's on the floor, bloody and bruised, no one does a thing.

He was a monster, the Dean Winchester he used to be. The man he is now has seen the evidence. He was a monster and monsters must be punished.

He stares up at them, at the men who blame him. Who hate him for the holes in his memory and for the things he can't tell them.

He hates them right back and he spits out blood.

He was dangerous, that Dean Winchester. Even with restraints and drugs and no knowledge, he's still more dangerous than he can explain.

o0o

_It won't be for long. Only a few months. No more than a year, I swear. I have to do this, Dean. I have to. Everyone will be safe and we'll be free. For the rest of our lives, we won't have—we can rest. Safe. _

_I can't be what I need to be if you're there. Please, understand. I can't… I can't do it if you're watching, and if you remember, you'd never let me go alone._

_I have to be alone for it to work. I can't protect you, not when I—_

_Trust me. Love me. Please. Wait for me._

o0o

In the safety of his room, he scours his mind. He searches for any scrap of the man they say he was or the man who is still his brother. They want names and where the bodies are buried, why the Winchesters tormented and murdered so many people.

He can't find anything except laughing green eyes and dimples, except warm hands and strong fingers, except a deep voice saying _I'll come back to you._

He doesn't mention that to the detectives or agents or doctors.

o0o

_I swear, I'll be me again, after. _

_We can go wherever we want, do whatever we want. I'll give you anything. _

_I love you. You're the reason. You'll understand and—and I hope you'll forgive me._

_But you can't be here now. Not when I'm—not now._

o0o

They try treatments to jog his memory—drug cocktails, electroshock, hypnosis. He can't remember anything before waking up in the hospital. They spend hours showing him every single photograph, every single case note.

None of it knocks anything loose.

_Damn you, Winchester_, the lead agent growls, a man named Henriksen who loathes him. _I know you're playin'. No way to forget somethin' like you._

He doesn't respond. Nothing to say. Whether or not he was Dean Winchester, he isn't anymore. Now he's just an identity-less man waiting for something.

Looking at the photos, feeling the bolts shoot through him, gulping the water to wash down the pills—he's always waiting.

o0o

_When it's finished, when we're safe, I'll lock everything away. I swear. I'll never use any of it again. I won't need to._

_And we'll go away. I'll make a place if I have to. Just us. You and me, Dean._

_Promise. After it's done, and I come back, promise. Me and you. _

_Wait for me. Stay alive. Because if you die, if you're not there… wait for me. _

o0o

Five months after waking, the man who was once Dean Winchester has his first visitor. She's a woman named Andrea Barr and she tells him that Dean Winchester once saved her son. There are tears in her eyes as she speaks, and her hands are soft when she places them on his.

_Remember, Dean_, she whispers, standing and leaning over the table. _Remember your brother. _She kisses his cheek and then lets the orderly escort her out.

He watches her go with wonder. If Dean Winchester saved her son, then maybe he wasn't a monster.

The next visitor is a man named Tom Collins. He says Dean Winchester helped save his life, and his brother and sister's. The third is a woman and her daughter, Susan and Tyler. More follow.

They all mention his brother. He wishes he could remember the man.

o0o

_I'll come back. When you have nothing else, remember that._

_I have to do this. _

_You'll be safe—you won't be touched. That is my command. _

_And I'll find you. After it's done, I'll find you._

o0o

A year after he woke up, the agents and detectives and doctors quit asking questions. A year after he woke up, he still doesn't remember being Dean Winchester.

A year and three weeks after he woke up, another visitor comes. He's tall and broad, with sharp green eyes and shaggy dark hair.

Around his neck is a golden amulet.

He says, _Dean_. He takes off the amulet and gently places the cord around the throat of the man who was once Dean Winchester.

He says, _Remember_.

o0o

_Where the sea kisses the sky,_ he said, _that's where I'll find you._

_Where the horizon ends, that's where I'll meet you._

_Wait. Just wait. I'll come. _

_Remember that. I'll always come._

o0o

Dean punches him in the face. Dean calls him every cuss word in English, Spanish, French, and Latin. Dean punches him again.

They're both crying, but neither mentions it.

_Fuck you, Sammy_, he growls, hands clenching Sam's shirt. _Fuck you for taking away my choice. I should'a been there. I should'a had your back._

Sam clutches him close, buries his face in Dean's neck. _I couldn't take the chance of you dying, Dean,_ he whispers. _If you died… I can't._

Dean breathes in, breathes out, asks, _They all came because of you?_

Sam nods without backing up or letting go. _I didn't want you thinkin' you're a monster. You're not. _

One of the orderlies bangs on the door, shouts, _Open up!_ He calls for help.

Dean steps away, looks at his brother. Sees the power coating him. _You said you'd lock it away. _

Lowering his head, Sam says, _Let's go home_.

The man who is Sam Winchester's brother says, _Okay_.

o0o

Winchester's seat of power is where the sea kisses the sky, past the furthest point of the horizon. Some people say he has a brother, or that he once did. A man saved from Hell by angels. A man killed by Winchester himself because no one else ever had the strength to destroy him.

Dean knows the rumors. He started most of them.

Sam had asked him to wait, back before those final battles. Told him to be there, after the end.

Even when Dean didn't remember, he knows he was always waiting.

And they live beyond the horizon, where the sea kisses the sky.


	38. there will be a door

**Title**: There will be a door and I will open it

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Anne Sexton.

**Warnings**: AU after 4.17. Or, you know, from the beginning, depending on how you see it. Blasphemy.

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 1980

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: thanks to _sadelyrate_ and _cuddlyscorpio_ for reading over this!

* * *

He was in a bright, sunshiny park, a little tuxedo cat sitting pretty at his feet.

"Hello, Dean," the cat said, smirking up at him, voice female and full of laughter.

"I'm dreaming," he realized.

"Yes." The cat flicked an ear.

"Let me guess—you're another angel come to kick my ass in gear. Tell me, _suck it up, soldier, we don't have time for you to heal._" Dean glared at the dainty feline. "I've had about all I can take of that."

"I am no angel," the cat told him. "But we do need to talk." She twined about his feet and he could hear her purring.

"Aw, why not," he muttered and scooped her up, cuddled her to his chest. The park flickered around him and he froze.

"Do not be afraid," the cat said, nudging the underside of his chin. "No harm will come to you while in my presence." The scenery settled on his old room in Lawrence, the one he barely remembered. He watched Mom tuck his younger self in, heard her promise, "Angels are watching over you." She kissed his four-year-old self's forehead and flicked the light.

"After the fire," the cat said. "You stopped believing. Why?"

Dean followed Mom down the hall, watched her crawl into bed with Dad.

"Because no angel saved her," he whispered, arms tightening till the cat squeaked. "Sorry," he muttered, loosening his grip.

"Your rescue from Hell was not ordered until you broke, Dean Winchester," the cat told him. He lifted her to look at her eye-to-eye. There were millennia in her gaze, worlds unknowable.

"Not an angel." He swallowed in shock.

"No." She stretched a paw out to bat his nose. "I formed Life, just as I did Death. I gave the living beings the opportunity to choose. I have stood back and watched, continually awed by what my creations do."

"So you don't intervene anymore?" he asked, unable to look away from her large green eyes.

"The man you call Jesus was not a part of me," she answered. "I have no name any of your kind know. I have not written or inspired any book, good or otherwise." She blinked slowly, releasing him.

He jerked his head to the side, letting go. Like all cats, she landed on her feet.

"The apocalypse," he began.

She interrupted, padding down the hall. "I made the deck and dealt the cards. It's up to you mortals how you play."

"What?" He followed her, trying to keep his temper. "This isn't a game! It's our lives."

A shadow in Sam's nursery. Old fear and hatred stung in Dean's eyes.

"I made everything," the cat said quietly. "I was alone and I sang a billion planets into being. Each planet has life, whether you humans recognize it or not. And each existence is unique." The cat looked up at him as Azazel bled into Sam's mouth. "When one world ends, the rest of creation will not notice. Here, the angels wage war against the demons. They will wonder about the Creator, will question—to themselves, save a few—where he has gone."

"Why are you tellin' me this?" Dean asked, closing his eyes as Mom ran into the room.

The cat stretched up, kneading his jeans. "Because, Dean, you need to understand. There is no grand scheme. Whatever Azazel had planned, whatever you started in Hell—_I_ did not write it."

He crouched down, nearly nose-to-nose with her. "What?"

She licked his chin. "Nothing is fated here, Dean. I start everything and then I back away. This world is governed by mortals." She shrugged, tail flicking.

Dad grabbed Sam and told Dean to _take your brother outside, fast as you can. Don't look back. Now, Dean, go!_

"So it can be stopped?" Dean asked.

"Yes."

o0o

Dean jackknifed up, gasping for air. The room was dark, but his internal clock let him know the sun was about to rise.

Four angels, Anna had said. Only four ever saw the face of God. And what kind of higher being would make people only to punish them for what it knew they would do?

Castiel, Uriel, Zachariah, Anna—Azazel, Lilith, Alistair. A trickster. Could they all just be evolution at work, no Yahweh or Allah or anything?

Dean stared at the ceiling. It was probably just a weird dream, something left over from Dean Smith. Hell, probably an angel or demon messing with him.

He really was tired of being a chess piece on some cosmic board. Something the cat said niggled at him—_Your rescue from Hell was not ordered until you broke._ If she didn't intervene, why order his rescue at all? Why not leave him there, with all the other dealmakers?

Dean slipped from the bed and silently walked to the door. He opened it as quietly as possible and left the room.

A dainty tuxedo queen sat there in the predawn light. _Hello, Dean_, she said, mouth never moving.

"What's your game?" he demanded. "If there's no plan, why did you save me?"

_I didn't_, she replied. _Zachariah is not an angel, Alistair always lied, and Castiel is very obedient to those he considers superior. You have no destiny, Dean. Fate is a human conception. _

She looked away, toward the dawn_. I have watched this world for time beyond your frail comprehension. If it ends soon, I will move on, possibly to the place your kind calls Saturn. It seems very interesting._ She glanced up at him. _You are the catalyst. That is why I've come to you. The demons believe you to be the one obstacle to Lucifer's rise. The angels are sure you alone can stop your brother before Lucifer fully manifests._

She moseyed over to him as he sank down onto his haunches. _Azazel fed him potent demon blood, Dean. His pet demon is giving him diluted human blood. He's always had the potential._

She nudged him under the chin, ears tickling him. _Alistair favored you, and Lilith fears you, because you have potential, too. _

o0o

Dean's eyes blinked open. Sunlight poured through the window and Sam brushed his teeth in the bathroom.

"Sam," he asked. "Did you dream about a cat?"

"What?" Sam rinsed his mouth out.

"Nevermind." He rolled out of bed and stretched.

Through the window, he saw a petite tuxedo cat trotting down the street. He watched till he couldn't see her anymore.

Already, the dream faded, but he remembered _I made the deck and dealt the cards. It's up to you mortals how you play._

"Hey, Sam," he said, going to stand next to him. He looked at their reflections in the mirror.

"Yeah?" Sam met his eyes in the glass.

"Fuck all this destiny crap. I'm done dancing to their tune. We're fightin' this war our way from now on."

Right there in the bathroom, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Sammy, Dean embraced every memory from Hell. Each torture, each scream, each prayer for deliverance that went unanswered—he stopped hiding from them. Stopped pretending they didn't happen.

He went to Hell. He broke apart. He destroyed others and he liked it. But he was out now. Someone pulled him out because he alone could stop the apocalypse he started.

If destiny were real. He never believed that. Even as Dean Smith, he thought fate to be nothing more than a crock of shit.

"Really?" Sam asked. A smile lurked in the corners of his mouth.

"Yeah," Dean said. "You and me. Our own team, our own gameplan. Fuck the angels and fuck the demons—not literally," he added, just to hear Sam's laugh. "You and me, Sammy. Azazel's champion and Alistair's prodigy. Let's save the world."

Sam smiled, ducking his head. "Okay," he said.

"So, that means no more dates with Ruby," Dean explained. "And any time the angels kidnap me for a conference, I'll tell 'em to shove it and find my way back to you." He met Sam's eyes. "Okay?"

Nodding, Sam's full grin bloomed, the one Dean really hadn't seen since Jessica died. "Let's do it," he agreed. "Boy with demon blood and man who left Hell mostly intact."

Dean snorted. "We're a soap opera, man."

Sam lightly shoved his shoulder. "Pack up. Let's get started."

Pausing, Dean grabbed his arm. "I mean it, Sam. No more dates with Ruby. What she's giving you—Sam, you don't really need it." Sam's eyes widened, full of shame and shock. "If she—_when_ she comes around again, send her away."

Sam looked away. "Sammy." His eyes flicked back to Dean and then to the floor. "I'm sorry for how I've been acting."

_He's always had the potential_, a soft, endless voice echoed in his mind. _Alistair favored you, and Lilith fears you, because you have potential, too._

"But I'm back now, Sam," he said. "I'm back and I'm done wallowing. I don't give a shit about anything you did in grief, anything you've done under Ruby's influence. But it stops now."

Dean felt complete and powerful, knowledge of Hell finally at the forefront. As Alistair's favorite playmate, he learned a lot. Hell had a different timescale. Four months, forty years—_Alistair always lied_—no, more like four thousand, a span his mind shied away from. He never left Alistair's workroom. He had seniority over a paltry black-eyed child who spent all of her time Above.

If Sam didn't send her packing or use his mojo, well. Dean wasn't ignoring Hell anymore.

Sam looked at him, measuring him. He wasn't the kid who went to Stanford, and he wasn't the kid who left in a haze of smoke. He wasn't the man who buried Dean, determined to put his soul back in a tattered body.

Sammy was still in this man Dean barely knew. Sammy who hero-worshipped him, followed him blindly, would have walked off a cliff if he asked.

"What happened last night?" Sam asked, half serious. "In that dream about a cat?"

Dean smiled. "I talked to God," he said. "Now, let's shag ass, dude. We're wastin' daylight here."

Sam scoffed but left the bathroom. Dean glanced in the mirror. His body was perfect, completely flawless, except for Castiel's handprint. Physically, he'd never felt better.

A little tuxedo housecat padded in his mind, large green eyes smirking and long black tail lashing. _I do have my favorites, Dean Winchester_, she purred. _Nothing is fated_.

Meeting his own gaze, Dean nodded. His eyes shone a white purer than even Lilith's and Hell settled over him like a warm coat.

_Dean and Sam_, he mused. _We're playin' our own game_ _now_.

"Hurry up," Sam called.

He hurried. Places to be, people to see, a little demon to kill—and a war to win.

Dean wondered for a moment if Alistair would be proud, then decided it didn't matter anymore.

Nothing mattered anymore except Sam and keeping the world from ending.

"I'm hungry!" Sam yelled impatiently. "I'll go without you, dude."

Dean opened the bathroom door. Sam was dressed and waiting by the window, foot tapping, eyebrow raised.

"Let's go," Dean said. "What're you waitin' for, Sammy?"

They shared a grin. Dean quickly got dressed and shrugged on his leather coat, flicking the light as he closed the door. He followed Sam to the Impala, his little brother not hesitating before slipping shotgun. "Finally catchin' on that I'm back?" Dean asked, settling in the driver's seat.

Sam smirked. "I just didn't wanna hear you bitch."

The Impala roared to life as he turned the key. When he looked at the windshield, preparing to charge out the spot, he saw a small pawprint on the glass.

_I have my favorites_, a little tuxedo queen purred. _Make your own destiny—nothing is foretold._

Dean smiled and turned the music up loud. Sam groaned theatrically, but when Dean started singing, Sam sang along.


	39. and the sun rises

**Title**: and the sun rises

**Disclaimer**: not my characters  
**Warnings**: vague spoilers for season four; takes place pre-series; AU

**Pairings**: none**  
Rating**:PG13

**Wordcount**: 1130

**Point of view**: third**  
Notes:** written for spn_summergen to caruso's prompt _high-school aged Sam claims he's a time-traveler from the future who has come to warn of the apocalypse. Eventually, John has him committed, believing Sam has been driven insane. Four years later, John disappears and Dean is alone and struggling, trying to make ends meet. Then Sam shows up on his doorstep one day with a fantastical story... _I didn't quite manage all of that, though.

* * *

_Wake up. It's just a dream, you know that. Wake up. This isn't right isn't right isn't right—_

o0o

In the middle of Sam's freshman year at highschool, he comes home one day and is no longer Sam.

Dad doesn't notice. Dean does.

o0o

At first, it's just little things. Sam knowing things he's never been told, how to hunt when he's never been trained, able to hit the bull's-eye ten out of ten times when the week before, he'd only been able to hit it three.

And there's this look he gets sometimes, like he can't believe where he is. And he only ever has nightmares anymore, waking in a scream. Usually Dean's name, sometimes _no_, sometimes _please_.

Dean doesn't know what to do. Dad's gone more and more often, since Dean's old enough to watch out for Sam, but then he starts taking Dean with him, saying at fourteen, Sam's old enough to stay alone.

Sam is less and less familiar each time Dean comes home. He used to be inquisitive and energetic, always asking questions and flitting from one topic to the next. He used to be _alive_. Dean could barely keep up with the kid.

Halfway through his freshman year of highschool, though, Sam is solemn and serious. He stops paying attention in class, always scribbling in a notebook that he refuses to let Dean see. He trains for hours each day, where before he'd drag his feet.

"Sam," Dean asks, at a loss. "What's goin' on with you?"

His little brother just looks at him and then away, and mutters, "You wouldn't believe me."

Dean badgers him until he tells, and Sam'd been right: Dean doesn't believe him.

o0o

Sam stops talking. Dad tries his best, but even Dean can't get Sam to open up. They look at each other across the table while Sam shadowboxes outside.

"I don't know what to do," Dean confesses, feeling like a failure.

"After the fire," Dad starts. He falls silent, clearing his throat, then continues, "After the fire, you didn't talk for awhile. I took you to a couple doctors, but they said you'd come out of it whenever you chose to and not a moment before."

Dean studies his hands. Dad drums his fingers on the table. "You know him better than me, kiddo," he finally says. "What should I do?"

Biting his lip, Dean weighs his options. "He told me," Dean says quietly, and it stings like betrayal in his gut. "He told me that he's from the future. That it gets bad, me and you die, and he did some spell. Came back to change things."

Dad is quiet. "You don't believe him?" he asks.

Dean opens his mouth, closes it, and looks away. "I want to," he admits.

Dad nods.

o0o

Dad sends Dean on a solo hunt just after graduation. It's just a weak spirit haunting a baseball stadium, quick and easy, in and out, salt and burn. Dean doesn't even get a scratch on him.

He heads home riding high, proud because he's actually a hunter now, not just a hunter's kid or a hunter's sidekick.

But when he gets home, Dad is sitting at the table, face serious, and he says, "Dean, we need to talk."

o0o

Dad had Sam committed.

Dad sent Sammy away.

When Dean wasn't there, while Dean didn't know—he sits at the table for hours after Dad's calm and rational explanation, after Dad gently pats his shoulder and goes to bed, after Dad just doesn't even seem to realize what he's done.

He sits there until he doesn't anymore, until he rises to his feet and walks out, then starts to run. He runs as the sun rises, till he collapses in exhaustion and wakes in a hospital bed, Dad at his side.

Dean turns his head away and ignores Dad, ignores the doctors, ignores everything.

"Dean," Dad begs him. "Don't do this. Not again."

Closing his eyes, Dean replays the first time Sammy walked on his own.

o0o

_Hey, don't worry, yeah? Everything will be alright. It's why I came back, to fix what went wrong. To change things. I can do it, I know I can. Wake up. C'mon. It's just a dream. Wake up for me._

o0o

They're not put in the same ward, of course. That'd be too simple. Dean never even gets a glance of Sammy. Dad visits some, but Dean ignores him and he finally stops.

Dean should have believed Sam when he finally explained what'd been going on. He could've helped. Avoided this. Why would Sam lie? Maybe he was confused, but Dean's dreams have been weird lately.

It might be the medication, but he stopped taking the pills days ago.

And when Sammy opens the door to his room, Dean isn't even surprised.

o0o

"Who are you?" Dean asks in the back of the bus, on the way out of town. They're bundled up in stolen coats, alone. No other passengers except for a sleeping woman, and the driver didn't bat an eye when they slunk down the aisle. Dean thought it odd, but Sam just pulled him into the very last seat.

"I'm your brother," Sam says softly. He looks away from Dean's eyes, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. "I _will_ be your brother. It's all confused in my head, Dean, and I don't—" He takes a deep breath. "I know things I shouldn't. I remember places I've never been. And I can do—I can do stuff."

He reaches down to clutch Dean's hand, squeezing so tight Dean winces. "I've seen you die. A thousand different ways, and then three _final_ ways, and I can't—" He brings his other hand up to lightly grip Dean's chin, turning his head. Their gazes meet and Sam tells him, "I'm not seeing that again, Dean. Not ever. And I'll do _anything_ to change what happened."

"Sam," Dean says helplessly. "Dude, seriously. What the fuck is going on?" Sam's _fifteen_. This is—nothing makes any sense.

Sam's smile is heartbreakingly old. "It will," he promises. "Don't worry. Just sleep, Dean. When you wake up, everything will be better."

Dean starts to say he's not tired, but suddenly he is. He leans back against the seat, letting his eyes close.

Sam's still holding his hand and Dean hears him say again, "I'll fix it, Dean. None of it's gonna happen. I swear. Even if—I become _that_, you won't die again."

It doesn't make Dean feel better, but he's just so tired.

o0o

_Don't worry. It's just a dream. When you wake up, it'll all be better. Trust me. None of this is how it should be, and I'm gonna set it right. Trust me trust me trust me—it's why I came back._


	40. 5 ways 512 could have gone

**Title**: Five ways "Swap Meat" could have gone

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: AU for 5.12; character death; spoilers for aired season 5

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG13

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Wordcount**: 1390

**Notes**: I know that Gary saying yes wouldn't actually let Lucifer into Sam's body. That's why this is AU.

* * *

**A**

"You're not Sam," Satan says.

He shakes his head. "No, I, uh, I'm Gary," he stutters, mouth dry. "But I—I caught Dean Winchester for you."

Satan casts a contemptuous glance at the unconscious man on the floor. "What do you request as payment for your services?"

Gary looks at him. He's really not that scary—of middling build, blondish hair, bruised skin. Kind of a let down, actually.

"I want power," Gary says, standing tall in stolen skin. "I want to be handsome and fit, and I want every woman to want me."

"As you wish, Gary," Satan says, smirking, turning to face him. "But first, do you swear to do everything I command, to be my vessel on Earth?"

Without even pausing to consider, thinking only of what he'll do when his wish has come true, Gary says, "Sure, man."

Bright light, white-hot and burning, fills Gary's soul and he dies screaming.

(Gary doesn't see Satan smile with Sam's lips or flex his fingers. Gary doesn't know that Dean Winchester wakes up and whispers a broken _yes_ to a question only he hears. Gary is not witness to the desolation that results from the two most powerful angels battling across the world.

Gary isn't around after the war ends, after Lucifer and Michael destroy each other and most of life with them. Gary isn't there when Sam Winchester, in Gary's body, leads the survivors, the few he can find, to a speck of land in South Dakota, and shows them how to live. It's a hard life and some of them die, and soon there's no one left at all.

But Gary has no idea about any of that, though, because he burns up in Lucifer's fire, and he takes most of the world with him.)

**B**

"You're not Sam," Dean says, cocking his Colt. "Who the fuck are you and where's my brother?"

"Hey, whoa, dude, I'm me," the imposter says, widening his eyes and spreading his hands. "I just—I hit my head last night and something must've gotten confused."

Without looking away, Dean grabs a silver knife out of his bag and tosses it to NotSam. "Slice yourself," he commands.

NotSam gulps, but cuts the back of his arm after a fumbling catch where he almost takes off a couple fingers. It clearly hurts, but not enough for him to be a 'shifter.

"Drop the knife," Dean commands now, and NotSam throws it into the corner.

Dean tosses him a flask of holy water. "Drink."

They cycle through half a dozen tests before NotSam finally says, "I switched our bodies! That's all. I did a spell and now I'm in this body and Sam's in mine. I'm Gary."

Dean growls, "And where is your body?"

NotSam-Gary shrugs. "At home, I guess."

Stalking forward, Dean palms a set of handcuffs and tells NotSam-Gary, "Put 'em on. We're goin' get my brother."

(After he's back in his own body, Sam takes great delight in destroying Gary's spellbook. Dean explains to Gary why meddling in dark forces is a terrible idea.

Gary never does another spell, but that's because the demon Trevor summons is angry it was so close to the Winchesters and missed them, so it kills everyone in a three-block radius.

The Winchesters come back and destroy it, but that doesn't really matter to Gary.)

**C**

"Hmm," the demon murmurs, sniffing at Sam's neck. "You're not so impressive in this skin, Sammy. Why, I could just eat you right up, couldn't I?" It giggles, licking down his jugular. "If I bit right here," it croons softly, "you'd bleed out in seconds. Would your soul go home to your body, you think? Or would you just poof out of existence?"

It steps back. "Better not risk it. I'll leave you here while I kill your bother of a brother, but don't worry—after my king takes his vessel, I'm sure he'll want to pay you a visit."

With a wave, the demon skips out, laughing again.

Sam casts about for even an inkling of an idea; after a moment, he screams, "Castiel! Castiel, please!"

The angel appears, inquisitive expression already in place. "Sam Winchester?" he asks. "What—"

"No time!" Sam interrupts. "You need to save Dean!" He rattles off the location and Castiel departs.

(Sam only finds out he was too late when his own body smirks at him and leaves him there, still bound to a chair in the wrong skin, going to blight the world.)

**D**

Gary doesn't want to kill him—Dean's a good guy, and if Hell wants him dead, he's clearly doing something right, right? So maybe the world needs him.

But Gary is tired of being a wuss, of being pushed around by everyone, of being mocked and misunderstood. And there's a bounty on Dean's head. Hell will owe him if he kills Dean. He'll be powerful if he pulls this trigger.

Gary takes a deep, steadying breath and kills his first human.

(Later, when he faces Sam and Castiel and Zachariah's army, trapped in Hell with Lucifer's pets, Gary knows he made the completely wrong choice.)

**E**

They're going to kill his brother. While he's trapped in Gary's weak, useless body, they're going to kill his brother. Hand him over to Hell.

_No_.

Trevor summons a demon, the foolish brat, and Sam's trapped and Dean's going to die, going back to Hell—

_No no no._

Sam doesn't have any weapons and he burned up his powers killing Lilith and Dean Dean _Dean_—

The demon possesses Nora and taunts Trevor, and Sam barely hears, trying to free himself because Dean's in danger, might already be dead, and—can he call Castiel? No, Castiel can't destroy demons anymore. But could he take Sam to Dean, get them both out of town? No, no, the demon would track them, that's what it does and fuck, a baby wanna-be Satanic witch caught the Winchesters? In what world is that fair, or right, or—

_No no no no no._

The demon kills Trevor and smirks at Sam and says, "I'll be back for you, Sammy. Your body is waiting for His High Unholiness and your brother—ooh, such a nice welcome home present, dontcha think?"

And Sam, stuck in a weak, useless body, glares at it and snarls, "_No_."

It's like the first time he used telekinesis all over again. No finesse, no plan, just instinct and will: Nora's head is thrown back and she screams as the demon billows out of her mouth.

Sam doesn't pause—he closes his eyes and reaches for his body, demanding to be back home, and he opens his eyes to Dean in his face, demanding, "Where is my brother?!"

He laughs in relief, the ropes untying so he can pull Dean into a hug.

"Sam?" Dean asks hesitantly.

"Yeah," he says. "Dean, I—it's—damn."

Dean pulls away, looking at him. "Sammy, what is it?"

Even when he was high on the placebo of Ruby's blood, Sam never felt this strong. "It's all back, Dean. The… the demon abilities. It's how I got my body back from Gary."

Dean stares at him for a long moment before asking, "Sammy?"

Sam can't meet his eyes. "I'm sorry."

Sighing, Dean pats his shoulder. "Let's shag ass out of town. We can worry once we're safe."

"Okay," Sam agrees.

But he's not sorry. This time, he'll use the powers right, and he won't hide it from Dean. This isn't about vengeance anymore. It's not about being cursed by Azazel, or made for Lucifer.

Hell gave him these powers, but he's using them for his purposes now. He'll keep Dean and himself safe from angels and from demons, from the hunters trying to do the right thing, from Fate and Destiny and Meant to Be.

He can do anything. And he's not afraid, not shying away, not anymore.

(On the other side of the world, Lucifer lifts his head. "Well now," he says softly. "How intriguing."

In Heaven, Zachariah feels a cold wind blow through his wings, and he shivers.

Flying through the cosmos, seeking his father, Castiel does not realize that anything has changed, and the small amulet remains cool in his grasp.

Standing beside his father, Michael asks, "Are we done waiting?"

And his father says, "Not quite yet.")


	41. 5 times John danced with Dean

**Title**: Five times John danced with Dean

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for up to 4.3; off-screen implied slash

**Pairings**: John/Mary, OMC/Dean

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 1500

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

**5**

Seven months after the fire, Dean still hadn't said a word. Every night when John checked on his boys, he found Dean curled up around Sammy, one hand over Sam's heart. John didn't know what to do—before they left Lawrence, a psychic had told him about monsters, and what lurked in the dark, and now, John could barely let the boys out of his sight.

Seven months to the night, John stepped out of the bathroom and heard Dean sleepily crooning a song Mary used to sing—"You are my sunshine," Dean's tiny voice murmured. "My only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray."

John wanted to weep, to fall to his knees and scream for Mary to come the fuck back because all three of her boys needed her so damn much. Instead, he walked to the bed and leaned over to kiss his sons, he scooped them up, and he slowly spun around, adding his voice to Dean's.

"You'll never know, dear, how much I love you," John whispered, and he gazed down at Dean's wet eyes. "So please don't take my sunshine away."

**10**

"Dean!" John screamed over the roaring—something. He had no idea what the fuck it was, but it stunk and it was loud, and it was between him and his boy.

He'd known Dean was too young yet, but he needed a second set of hands for this one, and he trusted Dean over anyone else in the world.

"Dad!" Dean yelled. "Get down!"

John couldn't see whatever Dean did, but he heard the explosion. Throwing himself backwards, John curled up to protect his middle. For a long, heart-stopping moment, John knew his boy was dead. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe—and then Dean was at his side, shaking him, and John heard him distantly through a high ringing.

"Dad! Dad! C'mon, dude, Dad, move, damnit!"

So John moved, rolled to his feet, and grabbed Dean, pulling him close and whirling around, laughing.

They were both alive. And John didn't take Dean on another hunt for four years.

**15**

"Dad," Dean said quietly while John researched and Dean cleaned guns.

"Yeah?" John replied, glancing up. It was about time he took a break. Groaning, he arched his back, stretching his arms over his head.

"Dad, there's a dance next week. We'll still be here, right?" Dean sounded embarrassed, ducking his head down, avoiding John's gaze.

John blinked, staring at his boy. He took a second look, wondering where the years had gone. Yesterday, Dean was a toddler, asleep against his chest. And now—

"Yeah, Dean," he said. "We'll be here. You have a date?"

Dean nodded. "Angie Basinger." He met John's eyes for a moment and looked away again. "Can you… I mean, you know…"

John took pity. "Of course, Dean. I taught your mother how to dance, too."

At first, Dean was self-conscious; John was relieved that Sam had gone to soccer camp for the day. But Dean swiftly caught on, and soon enough they were laughing. Dean's laugh was so much like Mary's that John's breath was caught, and he knew she'd be so proud of their boy.

**20**

"Come again?" John snarled into the phone.

"Don't take that tone with me, Winchester," Bobby growled back. "I've checked twice and even talked to Joshua. It's a curse and the only known cure is to dance naked under the full moon with a blood relative."

John closed his eyes. "Does it say if both have to be naked?"

Bobby didn't laugh, thankfully, but John could hear how much he wanted to. "To be safe," Bobby said, "both of you should be."

For one second, John wanted to pawn the whole thing off on to Sam. It wouldn't be that hard to convince him that Dean'd gotten stoned or smashed, and—no.

He and Dean took the hunt, and Dean nearly tore a ligament getting between John and the dying witch's concoction, so it was John's responsibility to cure Dean.

"Full moon is two days away," Bobby said. "It' be best to keep Dean sedated. No tellin' what kinda trouble that boy could find while he's so… uninhibited."

John sighed. "Yeah. Shit. He won't want Sammy to see him like this."

A moment of silence. "Well, you're not that far from me. I'll swing by and pick him up—I've got some books I could use his help cataloging," Bobby finally muttered.

So Sam went to Bobby's for a week. Dean spent two days sedated for his own safety and then John carried him to the car, drove to a secluded clearing he'd scouted, stripped them both, and waited for the moonrise. Dean woke just in time for the light to hit him and John pulled him up to dance.

And no power on Earth (or Heaven, or Hell) could ever get John to mention it again.

**25**

"A haunted gay club?" John parroted, raising an eyebrow at Dean.

Dean ducked his head, shuffling his feet. "Yeah," he said. "It should be simple—one of the pictures on the wall is in a frame this old homophobe carved himself. His kid is the owner, and—anyway." He cleared his throat. "I know where the dude is buried, so I figured I'd go in and snag the frame, then salt and burn both."

"Alright," John said. "I noticed some portents on the East Coast, so I'll look into that while you handle this one."

Dean blinked at him. "You mean—by myself? Really?"

John nodded. "You're a good hunter, Dean. Time we see how well you do on your own."

"Yes, yes sir." Dean swallowed. "I'll do you proud, Dad."

Smiling, John said, "I know you will, son."

Three days later, John watched from a corner as Dean worked the room, charming man after man onto the dance floor, all the while never letting his eyes drift from the owner, a dude somewhere around John's age. John knew the endgame: the frame was in the owner's office, behind an electronic lock and the best security system money could buy. So the easiest way in was to be invited.

John understood. He still wanted to kill everyone watching his baby boy.

Finally, after decades passed, and John'd imagined dozens of deaths, the owner made his move. He sauntered up to Dean, placed a hand on his hip, and Dean went with him.

It was part of the job, part of the con, and John knew Dean could handle himself. Knew nothing would happen unless Dean let it. Even so, John clenched his fists and followed.

He could hear Dean's laughter; his boy sounded drunk, but it was all part of the act. Just Dean pretending. "Hey, now," he heard Dean say. "We got time, Billy-boy." And Dean laughed again, but this time slightly strained.

As John ghosted down the hall, he fantasized about breaking Billy-boy's bones, one at a time.

The office door was open slightly, so John let himself in and saw the owner stretched out over the desk, unconscious.

Dean was at the far wall, peering at each picture. "Thought you had something on the coast," Dean said.

John shrugged. "It was a bust."

Chuckling, Dean gently removed one of the frames. "This one."

"Okay, let's go," John commanded, turning and striding out, instinctively taking over, even though this had been Dean's case.

Dean caught up and grabbed his arm, handing over the picture. "Should fit in your pocket, Da—_John_," Dean said softly. "It's kinda small." As John shoved it into his upper inside pocket, Dean continued, "I've been working this room for hours, Dad. If I just vanish with the owner and then he's found blacked out, I'll be remembered. But a few dances with a guy who I go home with? Won't be noticed."

John met his son's serious, earnest face. "Alright," he said, following Dean's lead. The loud music pulsed in John's ears as he wrapped his arms around his son and pretended it was Mary beneath his hands.

**27**

Azazel leaned in close, putting John's mouth a breath away from Dean's neck.

_He could dangerous, this boy of yours, Johnny_, Mary's murderer purred. _You know, he told me once that he'd kill me. That he already had._

_Don't,_ John begged. _Leave them alone. You have me. Let Dean and Sam go._

_No, hunter, _Azazel said. _This has been a long time coming, and I intend to play with your whelp until he's bloody and broken and dead._

_No,_ John said. _I won't let you_.

Azazel laughed and John flinched inside his own head. _Deny it all you want, John. Deny me, deny the truth—but your sons are mine, promised to me by sweet Mary, and I owe Dean. I'll prove to him, here, now, that no man could kill me._

John's gaze was directed to Dean's eyes as Azazel pulled back. _Hush now, John_, Azazel murmured gently. _It's time for us to dance_.


	42. even landlocked lovers yearn

**Title**: even landlocked lovers yearn

**Disclaimer**: if you recognize them, they're not mine. title from Death Cab for Cutie. quotes from "Sin City"

**Warnings**: implied incest; AU future!fic; creepy and depressing

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 1200

**Point** **of** **view**: second

**Notes**: um... the narration may get confusing. Sorry.

* * *

_And that's how it ends?_

_No. That's how it begins.

* * *

_

The fire is bright, warm, a welcome beacon after endless walking, barren night.

_Always night. No one remembers the sun._

You sink next to it, nodding to the handful of others—old woman, middle-aged couple, young man—boy, really—and a girl. Don't introduce yourself and neither do they.

Names have power.

_The moon hangs as a slice in the dark sky, a nasty smirk that frightens those who look up at her. _

The little girl huddles next to the young man; in the bouncing firelight, they look alike enough to be kin. He looks around with wary eyes, one hand always beneath his jacket.

Smart kid. This is a dangerous world.

_Sometimes it rains. Not often enough to feed the landscape, but sometimes. It's always welcome. Few plants grow in the worldwide desert, and those few make barely enough air to feed what life is left._

The couple murmur softly together; you listen. They aren't as quiet as they think. They're heading east—kin beyond the mountains, they hope. Someone who made it through the Purge.

You could tell them you've been there. All that's left is skeletal buildings, stench of smoke.

You could tell them they're wasting their time.

You could. You stay silent.

_Predators lurk in the continual night. No one has ever seen them, but everybody knows they're there. Nightmares given flesh, fangs, claws. Beasts that feed on blood. Horrific monsters, worse than anything man could imagine._

The siblings don't talk. Also smart. They have the look of survivors.

The crone sleeps.

The girl leans her head on the boy's thigh, sticks her thumb in her mouth. She closes her eyes as he runs his fingers through her hair.

He stares at you, eyes cold in the firelight. His face is tight, pinched; like everyone, he is hungry.

The woman-half of the couple offers him a bag of food. He nudges the little girl and she lunges up, grabs it.

She eats. He watches you.

_But not a woman. One saw it all coming. She tried warning the world, but like Cassandra of Troy, not a soul listened._

_No one likes to hear the end is on the way._

Hours pass. The couple rise to their feet and nod to you as they go east; the crone continues to sleep.

More hours pass and you follow, leaving the children and the crone the fire.

_It was swift. That's what those who lived say. It came from nowhere, killing billions with one blow. Not a virus or a toxin—Nature herself, air turned poisonous. Billions died in the first wave, millions in the second. No government stood, after._

The man screams. The woman fights. You feast.

_But some survived, a meager thousand. Scavengers flourished, and those creatures built for hardship. A few adapted to endless night; all the rest died._

You could return to the fire, but the children will be gone and the crone's flesh tough. The boy—young man—had a look you know well. Besides, you are tired.

You find a nice patch beneath the sky, far from the fires dotting the night. Fire keeps away the monsters, humans say.

You love fire, but you need to sleep. Watching the flames always distracts you.

Sometimes, you see him in them.

_No one knows how it began, or where, or why. No one knows why the sun doesn't shine anymore, those who think the sun to be more than myth. No one knows how long it's been. No one knows when it will end. Some think it already has._

She comes to you as you dream.

"Haven an answer yet?" she asks, eyes golden.

You shake your head. "Same as always," you say. "I'll find him on my own."

She sighs. "You really should join me. He's dead. Dead and gone beyond reach." She smirks. "Even yours."

_She, the one who saw it all, knows where it began, and why. But not how._

_It began at a crossroads, when one man sold his soul for another's life. It began at a crossroads, when one foolish demon made a deal._

_It began when a man rose from the dead, because nothing ever comes back right._

You didn't mean to start the Purge. But you were new to your power; you had no idea what you were doing.

You tore apart the gate to Hell, but he wasn't there. You ripped open Heaven's door, but he wasn't there, either.

God and Satan both refuse to speak to you, to give you any help. Only she, Azazel's daughter, offers any advice.

But she raped you, once. She tried to kill him. Thought she had killed him.

The more you wander, though, the longer you spend in this landscape of your making, the better her offer sounds.

_She tried telling them. And the small blonde with black eyes slit her throat and laughed._

You alone can track the time. It's years later when you see those siblings again, bloodstained and battle-hardened. They're underfed, ribs showing, eyes hollow and haunted.

It'd be a mercy to kill them. Ease their suffering, send them on to Heaven, what's left of it.

You are not merciful, and you grin at them.

The boy gets between you and his sister, holding a knife you recognize.

_Azazel had a plan, behind both God and Satan's backs, and it failed spectacularly._

Your eyes narrow. You haven't thought of Ruby in a long time, ever since she vanished after he died.

"Where'd you get that?" you ask.

He says nothing. He's a new breed of hunter, and he isn't quite sure what to make of you.

He'll break, though. They all do.

_Azazel was not around to reap what he'd sowed._

_Lucky demon._

He's a new breed of hunter, for this new world. His sister is steel-eyed, holding a knife of her own.

Even so, they are completely outclassed. You assess them, deciding who offers more meat.

You pounce. The boy, strong as he is, screams.

_Where the Purge came from, and why, no one living knows. When it will end… no one living can guess._

The girl tells you everything. You take both knives and slice off her head.

Virgin blood tastes marvelous. You're not surprised when her blood is sour.

So. Ruby's alive, passing out demon-killing knives. You scoured Heaven and Hell for your brother. You wandered Earth, searching for him.

And he's been with her. This whole time, that bitch has kept him muzzled and chained.

Next time Azazel's daughter shows up, you'll destroy her with the bitch's knife.

It's a new world, one of your making. There are new monsters, beyond a human's comprehension.

You are not a human. Haven't been since God let you fall out of Heaven and back into your corpse.

The Cheshire cat moon grins down at you and you remember how he looked in sunlight.

You'll kill Ruby and you'll take him back, and you'll live again.

_It began at a crossroads, and she wishes she'd warned them better. Made them listen. _

_It began at a crossroads, because of pure, undying love… she wishes she'd made them listen. _


	43. Hang All Your Hopes Upon The Stars

**Title**: Hang All Your Hopes Upon The Stars

**Disclaimer**: not my characters. just for fun.

**Warnings**: AU; wincest; character death; unapologetic run-on sentences

**Pairings**: John/Mary, Dean/Sam

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 2023

**Notes**: My version of _what if the boys grew up apart?_ A story in twelve pieces.

* * *

**I August**

On August 31, 1983, Mary Winchester took her sons to the park. She sat on a bench and bounced Sammy in her arms, watching Dean make friends in the sandbox.

By noon, Mary realized Dean was gone.

**II December **

On December 19, 1988, Mary Winchester was driving her son home from school. He was bouncing all over the backseat because of a sugar-rush(it'd been the day of the Christmas party) and Mary was looking in the rearview, smiling.

She never saw the pick-up run the stop sign; they were only five minutes from home.

**III April **

On April 5, 1992, John Winchester went out to a bar to drown his pain in alcohol. He'd done it countless times before and knew he'd probably do it again.

His son Sam spent the night in their home, alone and lonely, but when he woke up in the morning, the house was still empty.

At school, on April 6, 1992, Sam learned his father died in the hospital after wrapping his car around a tree.

**IV October **

On October 17, 1996, Sam Winchester ran away from his foster home. He had almost no memories of his mother, hated what he could remember of his father, and had no idea he'd ever had a brother.

For four years he'd been shipped from one place to the next, had nowhere to call home. He didn't try making friends, didn't try fitting in. He was considered a problem-child by everyone and none took the time to reach him.

By the time he ran away in '96, Sam had lost all faith in authority and God. He believed in only himself, what he himself could do.

He snuck out of the foster home one frosty day in October and stole into the night.

**V June **

On June 15, 1999, Sam Winchester bumped into a man in a crowded thrift-store in Topeka.

"Sorry," Sam muttered without looking.

"No harm," the guy replied and kept on his way.

A thrill of recognition shot through Sam and he raised his head, watched the man walk away. Dark blond hair, maybe light brown, shorn close; fairly tall, though not compared to Sam, who was shopping for clothes because he wouldn't stop growing; Sam traced the lines of the guy's shoulders with his eyes, then the rest of his body. Finally he was out of sight and Sam shook himself, kept shopping.

**VI February **

On February 28, 2001, Sam Winchester found himself on the losing end of a bar fight. He was nearly too drunk to stand and the bastards just kept coming. It was him versus too many to count, outside in the snow, and Sam's head throbbed so much he could barely think, much less defend himself. His body wasn't listening to his commands because his brain was in no shape to give them, and finally Sam fell, unable to keep standing. The gang laughed and proceeded to kick him, but thankfully he was too far gone to really feel much of anything at all.

The last thing he heard was a loud pop that sounded remarkably like gunfire.

**VII March **

On March 2, 2001, Sam Winchester woke up in a hospital bed, head fuzzy with scattered memories, three broken ribs, a sprained wrist, and a vow to never drink anything remotely alcoholic ever again.

He should have remembered Dad.

The doctor explained all of his injuries, told Sam he'd be in the hospital for a while longer—the better part of two days spent in unconsciousness convinced Sam the doc had the right of it.

"Any questions?" the doctor asked.

"Yeah," Sam said, starting to nod but then thinking it was best not to. "How'd I get here?"

"A good Samaritan brought you in, made sure you'd be alright, then left." The doctor smiled down at him. "Just rest, Mr. Winchester. You'll be fine."

**VIII July **

On July 15, 2002, Sam Winchester met Dean Potter.

Sam had pulled his battered truck into a parking spot next to an even more battered Chevy Impala and accidentally brushed the side. Neither of the vehicles was even remotely hurt, but a man tore out of the McDonald's and gaped at the nonexistent damage.

"The hell?" he demanded, reaching out to touch a mark Sam couldn't see. He glared at Sam and Sam held out his hands in supplication.

"Sorry," Sam apologized. "I misjudged the distance."

The guy straightened up, a good four inches shorter than Sam. "Misjudged the distance?" he repeated in disbelief. "You hit my car!"

A memory echoed in Sam's head, another time and another place, and he studied the guy's face, felt like something was missing, something that was his and stolen before he knew to miss it. The guy's eyes were familiar, huge and hazel, alight with anger and indignation, and Sam thought of Momma, suddenly and inexplicably, except not, because they were _her_ eyes, he knew it, without the ghost of a shadow of a doubt.

He fell back into his body without warning, realized the guy was building steam in his rant, and the guy's voice was so familiar Sam shivered.

"I'm sorry," Sam said again, interrupting, quietly and sincerely.

And the guy paused, tilted his head, and looked at Sam appraisingly for a minute. "No harm," he shrugged after a moment and smiled a small smile. "Sorry I went off on you." He held out a hand. "Dean Potter," he introduced himself.

Sam reached forward to shake. "Sam Winchester."

"Sam," Dean repeated. "Did you get your ass kicked in Topeka once?" He let go of Sam's hand.

"Yeah," Sam answered, raising an eyebrow. "Why? You in on it?"

Dean chuckled and stepped forward, clapped Sam on the back. "No. But it sure didn't look like a fair fight, you bein' completely trashed and all."

Sam couldn't help but chuckle, too. "Haven't touched alcohol since."

"Good," Dean said quietly, suddenly serious. "Good." He closed his eyes for a second and shook himself, then met Sam's gaze. "To make up for my earlier behavior, let me buy you lunch."

It took half a heartbeat for Sam to agree.

**IX September**

On September 20, 2002, Sam Winchester kissed Dean Potter for the first time. It was in the middle of an argument on whether baseball was better than basketball—they both agreed football sucked—and were working on Sam's truck together. Dean was in the middle of a point passionately praising basketball, and Sam leaned forward to press their lips together. It was quick, light, and Sam pulled away, more mortified than he'd ever been before. He couldn't look at Dean, could only wait in horrified silence for whatever Dean would do.

So when Dean stepped forward slowly and raised a hand to Sam's face, then shifted his grip to the back of Sam's neck and pulled Sam's head down, Sam was appropriately amazed. Dean's gaze flicked from Sam's eyes to his mouth and a slow smile curved his lips, then he moved in, and Sam couldn't believe Dean wasn't kicking his ass, was instead making the start of every single one of his fantasies come true, and it was better than Sam'd ever imagined.

**X January **

On January 24, 2003, Dean Potter turned twenty-four. Sam celebrated by taking him to Disneyworld. They hadn't really talked about their childhoods yet, keeping their conversations on the future, hopes and plans. But they both knew that both had been less than ideal. And neither of them ever touched a drop of alcohol.

Sam watched Dean walk around with wide eyes, watched his childlike joy, and felt absolutely heartbroken that Dean held no happy memories. At least Sam could recall Momma, even if the memories were fleeting images and never lingered long. But he'd watched Dean sleep, seen how few of his dreams were good.

Sam had escaped the foster system and the street relatively unscathed. He'd been beaten every now and again but never forced to do anything. Mostly, it had been neglect. And then on the street, he'd found a gang that watched each other's backs because of what most of them had fled.

Sam knew he'd been lucky and he had well-founded suspicions that Dean couldn't say the same.

So he took Dean to Disneyworld for his twenty-fourth birthday and he smiled at Dean's excitement, and he knew with absolute certainty that he would never let Dean go—unless Dean was no longer happy with him.

When they got back to the hotel, Dean asked where he could possibly have gotten the money to afford the trip.

Sam ducked his head and sank back on the king-sized bed, looked up at Dean through his lashes. "Some rich uncle I've never met died. He knew about me but never tried to keep me, never tried to find me. So now I have all this money I don't know what to do with." He smiled shyly and Dean bit his lip, slipped in between Sam's knees, and pushed lightly, making Sam fall back.

"I don't need you to spend your money on me, Sam," he said softly, resting his knees on either side of Sam's waist. "You don't have to buy me."

Sam met Dean's eyes and raised his hands to cradle Dean's face. "I know that, Dean," he replied with the same tone. "But it makes me happy to see you happy."

Dean stared down at him and Sam couldn't make out the expression on his face. "Did we know each other in another life?" Dean asked seriously and Sam smiled.

"I think we did," he responded and Dean leaned down to kiss his lips.

Sam flipped them over and Dean stared up at him, eyes serene and joyful, and Sam lowered his head to kiss his way up Dean's neck. When he reached Dean's ear, he whispered, "Happy birthday," and Dean whispered back, "Best birthday I've ever had."

**XI May **

On May 2, 2003, Missouri Moseley tracked down the two young men she'd been dreaming about for years. She saw two different worlds in her sleep, one where they grew together and one where neither remembered the other.

In January of '03 she knew the time had come, that now they needed to know the truth.

Her words might destroy them, but maybe, possibly—it could save them.

She followed a feeling to Miami, to a small garage, to two men more entwined in each other than they'd ever imagined.

Missouri watched them for hours, watched how in-tuned they were, how happy—after lifetimes of pain, together they'd found peace.

And with a few well-placed words, Missouri knew she would shatter them.

She walked up to the garage in time to hear, "Happy birthday, Sammy," and witness a gentle kiss.

Missouri felt her heart clench, felt her soul cry out not to do this, that these boys didn't really need to know.

But the day before Mary Winchester gave birth to her first child, she extracted a promise from Missouri, and Missouri had never lied.

_Make sure my sons know themselves_, Mary had asked, and Missouri swore.

So on May 2, 2003, Missouri stepped into the garage and two men turned to face her, and, taking a deep breath, she searched for the proper words, beginning with, "I knew your parents," and she watched their eyes widen.

And Missouri hated herself, but she had never lied before. No twenty-four year old oath would make a liar of her now.

**XII November **

On November 2, 1983, John woke to fire and Mary screaming. He ran up the stairs and met her in the hallway, where she held a wailing Sammy. John grabbed Mary and shoved her towards the stairs. She shrieked for Dean, Sammy tight in her grip, and John yelled back that Dean was gone.

Sitting on his Impala while their house burned to the ground, along with every belonging of Dean's, every picture of Dean, John pulled Mary close and kissed her hair, listened to Sammy softly crying, and promised that they'd start over somewhere new, the three of them, that everything would be fine in the morning.


	44. I am become a name

**Title**: I am become a name

**Disclaimer**: only the characters I thought up belong to me. Title from Tennyson.

**Warnings**: slash; incest; AU

**Pairings**: Dean/Sam, Dean/OMC

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 1050  
**Point of view**: third  
**Notes**: written for **spnremix**, based off "Breathing Out" by **obsessedmuch**

* * *

Dean walks out with no thought of where he's going—he just needs to get away, far away, before all the secrets come spilling out, staining the air between them. Sam won't—can't—understand, Dean knows that, and anyway, Dean can't explain. Not to anyone's satisfaction, even his own.

Definitely not his own.

And once he's started running, it's easier to just never stop.

o0o

He lets Sam know he's alive by sending postcards. He never answers Sam's calls. He doesn't talk to Bobby or Missouri or Ellen—too bad for Sammy that Pastor Jim's dead, because Dean would've talked to him. Wouldn't have ignored him, turned away from the phone whenever he called.

Dean wants to hear Sam's voice, but he never answers the phone. He can't. If Sammy asks him to go back, he will, and he can't do that. Sam's safer without him.

o0o

He heads north first, all the way to Canada. Next, he goes east, to skinny-dip in the Atlantic. He spends three months in Florida, driving along the coast.

Annalisa Fernandez takes him in free of charge; he putters around her house, repairing breakdowns of her home. Annalisa is just this side of ninety, having outlived all of her great-grandkids. She knows all of Dean's tricks before he tries them and doesn't let him get away with anything.

The fifth month after leaving Sam, Annalisa sits Dean down on the couch beside her and says, "You should call whoever you left behind, boy. You're dyin' here."

Dean chuckles sadly. "I can't, Ms. Anna. He's better off without me."

She sighs, leaning forward to stare into his eyes. "Dean." He meets her in the middle, bringing his arms up to hold her; she's so frail in his grip it's almost frightening. "You're wrong, but nothin' I say'll change your stubborn mind."

Dean leaves Annalisa on a warm spring day. He's been gone from Sam for half a year and the gaping wound in his soul keeps growing.

o0o

Dean tip-toes into Mexico for a week and tries to lose himself in bodies, tries to forget Sammy. But everyone looks like Sam and Dean can't escape.

He flees Mexico without a glance back and heads for Washington State, bypassing California all together.

o0o

And he wanders. He turns around in a small store one day, somewhere in Idaho, and realizes he hasn't seen Sam in a year. Hasn't heard Sam in a year. The need to track down his brother, make sure he's alright, is nearly overwhelming, but he fights it back.

It's better this way. Sam is safer without him. Sam can be normal without him.

o0o

He meets Micah in a bar down in New Orleans, where he spends six months getting wasted. He couldn't drown Sam's memory in bodies, but maybe he can in booze. Micah is no more than five eight, dyed blue hair and dark brown eyes—looks nothing like Sammy. Sounds nothing like Sammy. And he begs Dean to fuck him completely differently.

Dean still imagines Sammy when he comes.

When Dean leaves the Big Easy, Micah goes with him. It's not the same as Sam—not even close—but it's nice to have someone else to talk to. And talk they do.

Micah tells Dean everything he knows about dinosaurs: every scrap of information ever published or theorized about. He goes on about prehistoric oceans for hours. Dean listens because it's a nice distraction. Because it doesn't remind him of Sammy… except that it does.

Everything reminds him of Sammy.

o0o

Dean still hunts. Micah follows him one time to the graveyard and freaks when the ghost shows up. When he's done hyperventilating, he demands Dean tell him everything.

So Dean does. It's more than he's said in one go in a year and half, but Micah doesn't interrupt, just listens with a look on his face like Dean hasn't seen since Sammy. When he's done, Micah nods.

o0o

It's not the same, but it's familiar, having a partner again. For almost two years, Dean hunts with Micah. He dodges police and FBI and any contacts of Sam. Every time he turns around, a part of him expects to see Sam. But Sam's never there, and he's relieved.

He keeps up with Sam, though. Sam's making a life for himself, going back to school. He seems happy.

Dean's glad. Really he is.

And then Micah dies.

o0o

Dean wakes up in a hospital bed, Annalisa Fernandez in the seat next to him.

"Oh, you poor boy," she says tearfully, a raggedy tissue clenched in her fist.

"What day?" he rasps, trying to ignore the ache all over.

"The eighteenth," she answers, dabbing at her eyes.

Dean knows.

o0o

Annalisa takes him home. She bustles around the kitchen, baking cookies and pies—which, even for her, he can't force down—and fixing elaborate dinners he'd expect from a woman a third her age.

He never asks why the hospital called her. He doesn't care.

o0o

And another year passes. Soon it's been half a decade since Dean walked away, since he didn't answer his phone or go back.

Annalisa doesn't pressure him, and he figures it's like what having a grandma would've been. She's got a wicked sense of humor and a filthy mouth, and if she were even forty years younger, he might've considered trying something with her.

As it is, though, she provides the stability he needs to heal. He really did love Micah, and the kid went and got himself dead—which seems to happen a lot to people Dean loves.

As the half-year mark draws close, though, Annalisa starts dropping hints. He gets it—she thinks it's time he return to wherever he came from, go back to whoever he left behind. But he can't. He can't just drop back into Sam's life after five years, not like last time. Sam's happy again, a real person, with a life and dreams and a future.

He wakes early in January with dread forming a pit in his stomach. He'd always thought it was Sam with the Shining, but now he's not so sure—that dream was more than a dream. Maybe not a vision, but a possibility.

Sam, _bleedingcryingbeggingdying_—dead.

Six years, and he hasn't dialed the number once.

But, natural as breathing, he sends a text.


	45. travel the air in scorched hands

**Title**: travel the air in scorched hands

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Sylvia Plath

**Warnings**: takes place in the dream world from "What Is and What Should Never Be"

**Pairings**: John/Mary, Dean/Carmen, Sam/Jessica, Dean/Sam

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 1065

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

**Separation**: Dean never was really quite sure where he went wrong, but somewhere between Sam being in eighth grade and the debate team as a sophomore, Dean lost his little brother.

**Love**: "I do," Mary said, and John's face glowed like sunlight.

**Hope**: He takes off in the early hours of the morning one time, not too long after Dad dies. He just drives for hours, trying not to think. It doesn't work—he gets back and Dad's still dead.

**Illness**: Sam spent two weeks in the hospital after complications with appendicitis; Dean got fired from his job at Best Buy because he never left Sam's side, even though they hadn't talked in five months.

**Gregori**: The middle of Sam's back burns sometimes, waking him from sleep with a pained gasp.

**Gorgon**: Dean was fifteen when he met his first monster, Coach Connell; he never played baseball again.

**Faith**: Mary kisses his forehead every night till he's nine and says, "Angels are watching over you."

**Hate**: He didn't hate his brother, really… just couldn't understand where Mom and Dad went wrong with Dean.

**Together**: In all the world, only Jessica, Mary, and Carmen mourn.

**Children**: She's met Dean twice, and both times he's hit on her like there's no tomorrow; but this, a clingy and desperate full-body hug? Even she knows something's wrong.

**Brother**: He's up late studying—should have been in bed hours ago—and cleaning out his address book when he gets an incoming call; shock of all shocks, it's _Dean_.

**Victory**: "I got a full-ride to Stanford," Sam says at dinner.

**Defeat**: Everyone keeps asking him if he's been drinking—Dean doesn't think he's such a good guy in this world.

**Jealousy**: Sam wants to rip Dean away from Jessica—he trusts her, of course but hasn't trusted Dean since prom.

**Ashes**: Dean dreams in shades of red. The memories aren't sharp anymore, but linger on in nightmares.

**Phoenix**: (It is in the blood. Some people are just born to be a predator.)

**Determination**: He goes searching, those memories driving him, but can't find a single hunt.

**Mother**: He _must_ be having a crisis, Mary decides, watching Dean grin as he mows the grass.

**Tulip**: Carmen knows she deserves better than Dean, but she's seen flashes of the man he could be, and that's enough for her to stay.

**Angel**: "Oh, he's beautiful!" the old lady coos. Mary smiles, shifting Dean in her arms.

**Yuletide**: Mama visits her on the ninth anniversary of John's death and clucks her tongue when Mary tells her that both their sons are gone.

**Desperation**: He looks so hurt when Sam turns away; for the first time in almost six years, Sam worries about his brother.

**Fury**: Dean smirks at Sam and slurs, "Man, you missed out." Sam punches him in the mouth.

**Freedom**: John used to play catch with their boys; Mary misses watching, so much.

**Monument**: (A young boy drowns in Lake Manitoc, his parents with him.)

**Chained**: Words Dad never said haunt him—he looks at Sam and wonders if he's finally lost his mind.

**Gone**: Carmen slumps beside Mary on the couch when the news bulletin scrolls across the screen.

**Prison**: Looking back, Sam can pinpoint the instant something shattered in his brother: that warehouse, when he stabbed himself in the stomach and asked why he didn't wake up.

**Music**: "Bad Moon Rising" has never been his favorite, but now it always makes Sam shudder—he has no clue why, but he can't stand listening to it.

**Prism**: Mary has seen Dean's potential his whole life; but he keeps floundering anyway, and it drives her crazy.

**Illusion**: Mary calls Dean's cellphone every day for seven months. Dean answers every time and only says, "I'm sorry, Mama," before hanging up.

**Myth**: Sam's past has a beautiful blonde woman who loved him enough to wait; his future has blood and death, and a man with hazel eyes he calls _Brother_.

**Mystery**: Dean could've gone pro, Sam knows. That his brother didn't is just another disappointment in a long, never-ending line.

**Winter**: Sam has never fired a gun. Dean hands over a 1911 white-handled Colt and it feels right in Sam's grip.

**Vacation**: Mary calls Sam, fear and desperation in her voice. "Something's wrong with Dean," she cries, curled up on the couch. "Sam, I don't know what to do, how to make him better."

**Marriage**: It was hard, but Mary loved John enough to stay with him through his night terrors and the drinking(so little, so far between), and then he died asleep next to her, and she didn't even know he was gone till she got out of the shower.

**Family**: Dean is proud of his little brother; Sam hasn't felt proud of Dean since he was twenty.

**Queen**: "Carmen," Mary says, sitting down at the table. "What is going on with my son?"

**Jester**: Jessica says she'll wait for him, his ring dazzling on her finger.

**Friendship**: "You should go back to Stanford, Sammy," he said. "Before I ruin you."

**Father**: Dad didn't die a hero—but, Dean hopes, he died happy.

**Time**: Once Dean wakes up, Sam swears, they'll have a long-overdue talk.

**Sky**: Dean looks at him, eyes bright and happy. "I've found myself, Sammy." He pats the Impala's hood, blood thick on his hand.

**Lie**: "I'll be back, Jess, I promise—there's just something I've gotta do."

**Egypt**: (There's a small gold amulet in the back of Bobby Singer's closet that is never given a hunter to guard.)

**Atlas**: Dean vanishes on a blustery Thursday near the end of the year; six months later, with only a soft goodbye to their mother, and no explanation at all, Sam follows.

**Pack**: The first time Sam kissed his brother, he was twenty-seven and Dean was nowhere near being drunk.

**Spirit**: Sometimes he wonders how they've come to this, if there's anyway to go back. When he thinks hard enough, he can trace its beginning to that warehouse and his brother's blood spilling out over his hand.

**Conflagration**: (The night of Sam's sixth-month birthday, there was no fire in his nursery.)

**Death**: It'll be painful and loud, Dean knows. Probably a hail of gunfire when the law finally catches up. But he wouldn't have it any other way. And handing Sam a knife, his little brother's grin tells him the same.


End file.
